


Remember My Name

by Sniperks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But its a Coping Mechanism, Collage, Established Relationship, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Increasingly Unreliable Narrator, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Keith (Voltron) is a Good Boyfriend, Keith Helps Out, Kidnapping, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance Goes Crazy For a Sec, Lances memory gets pretty messed up, M/M, Memory Loss, Psychological Torture, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but it gets better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28891233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sniperks/pseuds/Sniperks
Summary: Lance could feel the presence hovering inches from his back. He shivers. There’s a prick at his bicep. If he had any presence of mind, he would flinch.“Dosage?”“Three and a half.”“Hit him with another. He’s with Honerva’s haul. Her experiment is down south. Make sure he doesn’t wake until Thursday at the earliest.”“Yes sir.”“Hear that,” There’s a pause. A shuffling of fabric, a wallet opening, “Lance McClain?” He could feel the cold huff of breath against his cheek. “We’re going to get a good price for your head.”
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 64





	1. Bottle caps and Straitjackets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance wakes up in an unfamiliar place, a white room seemingly without a door. He doesn't know how he got there or why. This prompts some startling self reflection.

_Now_

January 5, 2047

There was a pounding in his head when Lance woke up. The room was blinding. So unearthly bright that he could see the light through his closed eyelids. Vision burning with smears of the red and orange peeking through the membrane. When he finally cracked his eyes open, he was instantly assaulted with _white._ There was _so_ much white. Where the white walls connected to white ceiling, fluorescent bulbs cast blinding white light into the cubed room. Lance stumbled to his feet unsteadily, a wave of blood flowing to his head threatening to send him down again. His head spun violently, his eyes were squinted and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. Leaning heavily against the wall he took in his admittedly confusing surroundings.

The flooring was white beneath his white shoes and his gaze travelled along his white pants and white long-sleeve shirt. His tan hands were bound in thick white gloves that were sewn tightly to the cuffs of his sleeved shirt.

There was a heaviness in his limbs, a drowsiness intruding in on his movements. His brain felt numb, slowly registering his surrounding before faltering. An unfamiliar floaty feeling was drifting through his bleary consciousness, scrambling his already poor grasp on reality.

He vaguely wondered how long he’d been passed out on the floor.

Why had he even been on the floor? Where was he? He didn’t remember putting on these weird clothes or going to sleep in this weird room. Maybe his friends were pranking him. But...that didn’t seem right. This was a little extreme, even for them. Sue him, but he was pretty sure none of them would cause him bodily harm for the sake of a laugh and with the way his heartbeat was pounding beneath his eyes and along his forehead, something was definitely off.

He remembered...leaving Keith's apartment. It was...Tuesday? He would only leave if he had class in the morning. The drive home in the snow...and walk to the dorm? Wait, no. He hadn’t arrived at his dorm that night. He’d- something had happened. Something that made him yank hard at the steering wheel. That’s where everything got a little blurry. Like there was a memory there, begging to be seen but just out of his reach. It was on the tip of his tongue, the far edges of his brain, yearning to be brought to the light.

The light. Why the fuck was everything so bright?

The pounding in his head grew as he tried to walk around the room. He reached up with his gloved hand and winced as it connected with a tender spot on his temple. He must have been hit with something. Unfortunately, that still didn’t explain what was going on, this was unlike any hospital he’d ever been to.

From what he could tell, there was no door in sight. Just an empty white room. That still didn’t make sense. He had to have gotten in _somehow_.

Maybe he was in a coma. Did it hurt this much to be in a coma? God, he was really confused. Slowly, Lance let his knees buckle, sliding his back down the wall until he was sitting. The room was too bright. It was only when he closed his eyes that he really heard himself.

His breathing was loud, not quite laboured but heavy and quick. He was shaking subtly, just a barely there shiver. He couldn’t stop. He was on edge and there was something wrong _._ Something different, something _intoxicating._ He felt anxious and calm all at once. Like something inside him knew to be panicking but a force was pushing it down. Holding back the feelings. Drowning them in a sensational high.

Oh god.

He was _high._ What would his mom say? Lance blinked, his gaze catching on something in the midst of his moral dilemma. Was that...? A small, paper thin line from the floor to the roof was just barely visible.

Crawling across the slick floor, he inspected the only unique aspect of the room. His gloves slipped over the smooth surface, sliding over the small crack where the door had to be, refusing to give him purchase. He’d been drugged. _Drugged and kidnapped._ His mind supplied unhelpfully. He grit his teeth as he continued to pry at the crack. Didn’t these people know anything about consent?

He didn’t know how long he’d been here, but he was already sick of it. His fingers felt stiff and uncooperative, their uselessness only heightened by the thick fabric encasing them. He clawed at the dark line, feeling his brunt nails scrape along the indent from inside the gloves fabric. The bright white light made his head spin, a permanent ache rooting itself deep in his head as a constant companion. His heart beat thumped loudly in his eyes, it felt unnatural. It wasn’t the only thing that was off though, he was jittery, like there was too much adrenaline brimming in his veins and not enough ways for him to get the energy out. He was shaking from the tips of his fingers to the bottoms of his feet.

The high was wearing off. The panic was taking over. It was suffocating. He needed to get out of this room. Claustrophobia had never been something that he associated with himself but every passing painful breath brought the walls closer to him, closing in on him. He panted a breath, his lungs were burning. Everything was pressing down on him all at once. Every thought he should have had the second he woke up rushed into his head. Everything that had been moving slow sped up and ran over him. Trampling him and squeezing the air out of his every pour. The seam of his glove slipped over the crease again. Lance felt woozy, drunk on something that unbalanced him. He couldn’t pin down his emotions, nor could he control his own movements. It was proved as, once again, his fingers released their feeble purchase on the crack in the wall. These stupid gloves! Suddenly, he was tearing at the gloves with his teeth. Popping the seams and ripping the fabric of his sleeves. He barely saw the flash of his dark skin before a hissing drew his attention to a small white vent he hadn’t noticed protruding from the ceiling. A fog was falling from the slit and Lance didn’t have time to panic before the smoke was descending on him.

Despite all the energy that had just been in his veins, he froze. Watching unceremoniously pensive as cloudy gas sank towards him. He hardly had time to wonder if it would be a good idea to maybe…not breathe in the mysterious gas, before it was upon him. It burned his eyes, so he clenched them tight.

His lungs inhaled, sucking in a gasp of gas. It felt thick in his mouth and heavy as it crawled its way down his throat. His thoughts slowed and the tension seeped from his limbs almost instantaneously. Lance didn’t know much about drugs but this was clearly some of the good shit. He felt every thought slow, every knot of muscle melt in a way that felt unnatural. Head lolling uselessly from where his neck had begun to slump, Lance felt himself go cross-eyed. Knees planted unsteadily on the ground swayed precariously, a wary tower barely a hairsbreadth away from toppling to the earth’s surface. His stomach lurching was the last straw that sent him dropping to his side without a sound. He could hardly gasp for air in the cloudy mess of a room, any hope of a groan or yell died in his throat. A vague pain erupted in his shoulder as he connected with the floor, but it was overwhelmed by the sudden nausea. Splayed out on the floor, he felt the world swirl around him. His head sank into the hard floor, he felt the caress of it grab at the rest of his body insistently, trying to swallow him up. The room flipped and swam as the floor tried to eat him. Every surface was white and he didn’t know if he was vomiting on the wall or the floor before he was drenched in darkness.

***

_Then (7 years before)_

April 27, 2040

Lance screws off the cap of his coke-a-cola with a satisfying _hiss._ Condensation over the glass making his hand chill with cold. He doesn’t mind much though, not with the warmth of the rollerblading rink around him. Strangers filing the actual oval rink are laughing as they fall over each other and Lance can’t help but grin every time he sees a couple skating around side by side or, on rare occasion, doing that cute thing where one of them skates backwards to help their clumsy partner. He sighs internally. That’s top shelf romance right there.

Fiddling with the edge of the bottle cap, mind still wandering, he twists around to glance at Hunk. His friend is lagging behind, struggling with his own soda and Lance is about to offer his help when he’s suddenly slamming into something.

His drink sloshes over the lip of the bottle, spilling over Lance’s fingers and down the front of the man’s dark shirt, soaking through the material and clinging to his skin. Surprised eyes blinked up at him, going wide as the liquid seeps along the fabric.

“Shit!” Lance exclaims, stumbling. “What the hell! Watch where you’re going, man.” Looking up, Lance’s brain lags as he comes to the striking realization that he is faced with possibly the cutest boy he’d ever seen in his life.

Shock is prominent on his sharp features for a split second before it melts into anger.

“Me!? I’m not the one walking around with my head up my ass!” The gorgeous stranger accuses, stepping back to assess the mess on his shirt.

All thoughts of his apparent cuteness fly out of Lance’s head as irritation simmers up inside him.

“What are you talking about?! You totally ran into me!” Lance growls, clenching the half empty coke bottle tightly in his hand.

Incredulous disbelief flashes quickly across his annoyingly good looking face, “I was literally just standing here.” Shooting Lance an inquisitive look, he gestures pointedly at nothing, “Not moving. At all.”

Lance’s retort is on the tip of his tongue, not one to back down, when he recognizes a familiar face just off to the strangers left.

“Pidge?” Lance splutters, feeling his eyebrows shoot what must be comically high.

Her arms are crossed loosely across her chest, phone dangling lazily between her nimble fingers. Amusement is clearly written across her face and if Lance didn’t know better, he would have thought she was laughing at him.

Her hair is sticking up at all angles, not an unusual look for her, what is slightly different is the variety of brightly coloured pins and bands separating random bunches of her choppy hair. Taking up well over a quarter of her face, her glasses are wide and round as ever. She’s already decked out in all her rollerblading gear, the huge wheels making her taller than she actually is. Pidge almost looks like she walked right out of a bad 80’s commercial and it to a retro skating rink in the 20th century.

“Lance, meet Keith.” She says, waving sloppily in the direction of the scowling man. “You know, Shiro’s brother.” She raises an eyebrow, looking far too smug. “I knew you guys might butt heads but I didn’t expect you to make such an awful first impression.” She laughs and Lance glares at her, “You did just win me ten bucks from Shiro though.” Her smile turns the easy expression of evil that Lance has come to expect in the last year of knowing her. “Unlike me, he had a little faith in you guys. He really should know better than to bet against me.”

Gawking at them, probably unattractively, Lance doesn’t notice Hunk approaching until his hand falls heavily on his shoulder.

“That’s exactly the reason I leave whenever you say the word ‘bet’. There’s not enough money in my bank account to keep up.” Turning, he finds Hunk smiling that friendly smile of his that gets even the most closed off people love him. “Nice to meet you, Keith.” They shake hands politely and Lance narrows his eyes at his best friend. He was consulting with the enemy! “Sorry about Lance here,” A squeeze to his shoulder, “He gets a little over excited when he meets new people sometimes. Think of him like a puppy high on caffeine.” Lance lets out an undignified sound and tells himself he’s not pouting.

Keith’s face lifts a little out of the scowl he seemed to have settled on and Lance can see the underlying laughter. And wow. Lance- Lance almost forgets to be annoyed when a hot boy is looking at him like that. Fortunately, he manages to collect himself enough to not let out the embarrassingly dumbstruck expression overtake his face. 

Instead he huffs, flicking his bottle cap at Keith in annoyed resentment. The cocky bastard catches it in one hand and quirks an admittedly cute perplexed expression at him. Annoying Keith with his annoying reflexes. Who did he think he was? Showing up out of nowhere and already fitting in with Lance’s group seamlessly? Bull fucking shit.

He’s still sulking as he and Hunk go up to the rental desk after dropping their drinks off at the table Pidge and Keith had claimed. They’d both stayed back seeing as Pidge already had her equipment and Keith had apparently brought his own. Stupid boys with stupid foresight.

He can tell Hunk is laughing at him as they wait in line. They’ve been friends for so long that Lance can distinguish all his tells. Like the way he’s biting his lip in a poor attempt to keep in his smile, glancing at Lance every so often to gauge if he’s about to crack or not. Unfortunately Hunk has borne witness to enough rants to know that it’s only a matter of time before he explodes.

Lance keeps his gaze determinedly on the carpet, counting the overly bright squiggles inscribed in the design like his life depends on it. Even with the distraction, he doesn’t make it very long. Anyone that really knows him is aware that he doesn’t like silence. It’s almost annoying.

“What?” He snaps at last, still a few people away from the front desk.

Hunk quirks an eyebrow at him, smirk just barely suppressed. “Nothing, nothing.”

Lance stares at him, not surprised at all when Hunk just stares right back. It feels like a duel, neither of them willing to back down. Advantageously for Lance, staring contests were all the rage in his house growing up. He once had a stare down with Rachel for so long they both needed eye drops at the end of it. Unfortunately for Lance, over the years he’s been able to teach Hunk how to play dirty.

It’s clear that Hunk had been taking his training very seriously when, just as it looks like he’s about to close his eyes, he mutters,

“You think Keith’s hot, don’t you?”

Lance jerks in surprise, blinking owlishly at him before stuttering out a defensive, “What! I- I do _not_!”

Laughing good humoredly, Hunk turns and walks the few steps forward in line, “You do so. I saw you checking him out. Even you have to admit that you aren’t exactly the most subtle.”

Torn between sticking to his theme of the night, annoyed offence, or switching it up to straight up outrage, Lance takes a second too long to reply.

“First of all,” He says scrunching up his face, “I happen to be the king of subtle, thank you very much.” Hunk looks at him with raised eyebrows, strongly suggesting that he knows when Lance is being even marginally untruthful. “And two; however _objectively_ attractive Keith may be, his personality is like pouring a handful of sand into your eyes.”

Rolling his own eyes away from Lance, Hunk’s attention catches on a small boy flying down the carpeted flooring on his rollerblades, a frantic woman shouting after him. “Hmmm that’s a new metaphor,” he replies distractedly, “Usually you go for comparing people you dislike to putting bread into a film camera.”

Snorting, Lance realizes, not for the first time, that Hunk is his absolute best friend in the world. This guy really does know him.

“That was implied as well.” He rattles, wincing slightly as the little boy goes crashing into a table, fries shooting up and leaving ketchup marks on the walls.

Hunk hums, again dragging Lance forward in line, “Alright man, whatever you say. Just-” He shoots pleading eyes down at him and Lance can already feel his will to be a dick crumbling underfoot. “Try to tone it down a bit. We’re here for Shiro to celebrate him getting into the police academy. Keith has as much right to have fun today as the rest of us.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Thumbing the loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve, he promises, “I solemnly swear not to be a total jackass.” He does the sacred salute for good measure, “Scouts honour.”

Levelling a flat look in Lance’s direction, Hunk deadpans, “You weren’t a scout.” Lance can see the underlying satisfaction in Hunk’s expression though, so he just grins at him before moving to rent some rollerblades. Time to get the party started.

***

_Now_

January, 6 2047

The pins and needles that had developed in his arms seemed to be spreading. Tingling their way across his chest and down his torso. His legs felt numb where they were folded under his body but he didn’t move. He’d learned the hard way that the result wasn’t worth the effort.  
When he’d woken up this morning, he’d found himself acquainted with a new wardrobe. Apparently, ripping through your sleeves five minutes after arriving in your white cell wasn’t polite. He was now decked out in a white straitjacket. Very cozy. His hosts sure knew how to make a guy comfortable.

His arms were wrapped across his waist, crisscrossing in a way that made it difficult to move. The fabric was thick and scratchy, stiff and intentionally binding. Lance had been working hard to loosen the vise-like grip the straps had on his upper body for what seemed like the better part of an hour. Unfortunately, Lance knew jack-all about straitjackets. If that wasn’t already blindingly clear by his stellar description.

The fabric encasing his arms continued the rest of the way around his back to link together somewhere between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t see it, obviously, but if the lump he felt there when he pressed just right against the wall was anything to go by, that’s where the sleeves joined together. Assuming, of course, that the sleeves were in fact two pieces and not one continuous loop of thick canvas that was impossible to escape.

Logically, Lance knew that that particular theory was one of the least likely scenarios that his mind had supplied, but in the hour that he’d been struggling with the thing, it was looking more and more like a real possibility.

Honestly, Lance wasn’t sure that ‘struggling’ was a strong enough word for what he was doing. It was more ‘desperately rolling on the floor trying to unhook something that was in all likelihood actually a lock in need of a key’. That seemed a bit more accurate.

It hadn’t taken him long after the third time he’d rolled ungracefully into the wall that he realized the situation for what it was. Fucking impossible.

Standing up while wearing a straitjacket was also unreasonably hard, right up there with breathing and moving. He supposed that might have been the point though. If it were up to Lance, he would definitely chain himself up too. Wouldn’t want an average twenty-four year old university student on the loose. What chaos that would ensue.

Lance sighed, leaning his head back until it bumped the wall behind him, closing his eyes so the fluorescent lights above him wouldn’t burn out his retinas. Even his sarcasm wasn’t cheering him up. Not that he was exactly surprised by that particular fact. He didn’t know many people that would be thrilled to wake up in a blank room wrapped up in a straitjacket.

It wasn’t until the tingles shooting across his body went from uncomfortable to genuinely painful that he tipped over onto his side. He landed uncomfortably on his elbow but it didn’t really matter. It’s not like he could even move it if he wanted to _._ He let out another sigh. What a fucking day.

***

_Then (4 years before)_

Nov 20, 2043

“Ronnie? Can you hear me now?” Lance asks. He’s sitting on his dorm bed, eyes focused on the phone propped against the lamp on his night stand. The pixelated images of his family on the other end are fuzzy but fairly decent considering the distance.

“Yes! Okay now don’t move.” Her voice sounds different on the phone line but still the same old Veronica he’s always known. “Everyone say hi!” An abundance of greetings filter through the line and Lance’s face breaks into a grin.

He’s missed his family more than he really wants to admit. He waves, laughing when one of his nephew’s steals the phone to run laps around the house, whooping in delight as he dodges exasperated parents and amused cousins. When the phone is finally claimed by Veronica again, Lance’s homesickness has all but disappeared. It was almost like he was right back in Cuba with them. Dancing and singing and laughing.

“So baby bro, what’s new?” Rachel asked from over Veronica’s shoulder, popping a grape into her mouth.

Lance snorted, drawing his legs onto the bed to get comfortable, “You say that like you’re more than a minute older than me.”

The grin he got from her was half petty and half amused, “It was a minute and a half thanks.”

Lance rolled his eyes. She said that every time. “You have no proof.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Do we need to break out the birth certificates again?”

He was about to agree, (because he was right) when Veronica shoved her way into the conversation. 

“Give it a rest guys, honestly. You’ve been having this argument for twenty years.” Her voice was exasperated but Lance could hear the fondness in her tone.

“You love us.” Rachel said, munching on another handful of grapes.

“Less and less as the years pass.” Veronica deadpanned, earning herself a punch on the shoulder.

Lance grinned, he already felt like he was home despite being a few thousand kilometres north of the Gulf of Mexico. It was refreshing. The banter. Not that Hunk and Pidge didn’t keep that particular niche filled exceptionally well.

“ _Anyways,_ ” Veronica starts with a glare at Rachel as she tries to cut her off again. “How are you coping, Lance?”

Lance snorts, shoving a pillow between him and the wall to lean against, “Coping? Am I at university or prison?”

Amused, Veronica raises a perfectly sculpted brow at him, “I was under the impression they were the same thing.”

He rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath. “Well then I’m doing amazingly. My cell-mate doesn’t try to kill me in my sleep so we’re all good in that department.”

His sister pushes down her own grin, “Hunk right?”

“Yup,” Lance feels a swell of pride as he thinks of his friend, “He’s a cool dude. Guy makes the best food. I swear one day he’s going to be famous.”

“Oh?” Rachel butts in, “Can you bring him to Cuba? I could use a break from Luis’ inedible cooking.” She says the last part loudly enough for their brother to hear, the offended ‘hey!’ ringing clearly through the line as Rachel shrieks and dodges out of the screen as Luis presumably chases her.

“Mm, she’s not wrong you know. Maybe next summer for the wedding you could bring him along?” she suggests. Lance considers it for a second, it would be pretty cool for his best buddy to see where he grew up. That is, until, Veronica’s face turns devilish. “Unless, of course you had someone else in mind?” Her suppressed grin would look evil if she were to let it form, Lance is sure of it. “Anyone special caught your eye, Lance? Maybe a certain boy that-”

“Veronica!” Lance could feel his face lighting up. “Shut up!”

She laughs, a full bellied laugh that has her shoulders shaking. It’s the kind of laugh one can only achieve when embarrassing a sibling. Lance’s ears burn. He covers the camera with one hand and buries his face in his pillows. It was a mistake to tell his family about Keith.

“Oh come on Lance! Don’t be that way!”

“I hate you so much.” Lance groans into the pillowcase. It’s getting hard to breathe but he stays where he is. He needs to make a _point._ What the point is, he’s not entirely sure. Perhaps it’s just to let the blood in his cheeks go the fuck back to wherever it was before.

“Yes, yes I know.” Her voice glitches a bit but otherwise the connection seems to be uninterrupted by Lance’s dramatic movement. “Have you asked him out yet?”

Lance sighs, he should have known this question would come up. Veronica was weirdly intrigued in his love life for the first time in forever. She hadn’t cared much about it back when he was in high school and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she was now.

“No.” He huffs, finally lifting his head to stare deadpan into the camera, as if he could telepathically tell Veronica to drop the subject. She doesn’t, of course.

“Well why not?” she asks critically, like it’s one of her cases in court instead of her brother’s pathetic dating life.

Rolling his head back like the melodramatic bitch he is, he sighs at the ceiling. “Because! I-” Cutting himself off so he doesn’t say anything he might come to regret, he lets the silence hang in the air.

Ever the lawyer, Veronica knows exactly how to get Lance to talk. She doesn’t say anything either. Just quirks an eyebrow and waits. She knows how Lance doesn’t like silence, how it feels like his job to fill it. She’s right. Lance barely makes it thirty seconds before he’s fidgeting.

Ugh. Sometimes his sister is too good at reading him. He bursts.

“I don’t know, Ronnie! Maybe I’m-” He licks his lips, looking anywhere but the camera, “Maybe I’m kind of scared.”

Even through the pixels of the screen, Lance knows that analyzing look in her eye means she’s assessing him. It makes him feel like a middle schooler’s science fair project. She tilts her head and simply says, “Why?”

Lance lets out a tortured groan again. What more did she want from him? His eyes land on an item across the room.

Keith left his jacket here again. It’s hanging on the back of Hunk’s desk chair. It’s the stupid cropped red jacket that no one should be able to pull off and yet, one way or another, Keith makes it look good. Maybe Lance is just whipped.  
He pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth, eyes burning holes into the dumb jacket.

“I don’t want him to say no.” Lance breathes. His ears are burning again. God, he’s pathetic.

She hums, “Well he can't exactly say yes either if you don’t ask.” She gives him a look, “Take a chance, it might be the best decision of your life.”

“Been reading a lot of self-help books lately, Ronnie?” Lance asks dryly, if only to attempt a subject change.

“Ha, ha. I’m serious, Lance. Just ask him.” She adjusted her glasses, pushing back her short hair with one hand.

“Why do you even care anyway?” Lance muttered, only half hoping she wouldn’t hear him.

Veronica pursed her lips. The older sister vibe radiating off of her in waves.

“I care,” She pauses, most likely for dramatic effect. Lance was annoyed to admit that she was probably only doing it because it was _his_ thing and would irritate him. “Because, I’ve never seen you worry about a crush like this. The most worked up you’ve ever been about someone you like was Nyma,” Lance’s face twisted in distaste at the name. That was a messy situation. “And you bounced back from that quicker than anyone expected you would. But with Keith? Lance, you’ve been stuck on him for over four _years._ ” She tilts her head again. She always seemed to do that. Maybe it was a lawyer thing. “I would argue that means something, wouldn’t you?”

Lance didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. “There’s something different about him, and we both know it.” He can feel her staring into his soul. Like she can see right through him. Hell, maybe she can, that at least would explain why her words were ringing so clearly to him. “All I’m saying is that you should take a risk before it’s too late. From what you’ve told us about him, he sounds like quite the catch. Are you sure he’s going to be single for another four years waiting for you to wipe the shit out of your eyes?”

“Eloquently phrased.” He mutters halfheartedly. Fiddling with a stray hangnail on his pinky finger, mulling over her words.

She shrugs, “I’m right.”

“Cocky much?” She is right. He knows she is.

“Whatever.” She sighs, “But, Lance? Think about it. Okay?”

“I- yeah. Yeah I will.”

She smiles, gleaming slightly with pride. “Good. Now enough with your love crisis, let’s go say hi to Nydia. She wants to hear more about the ice cream place you talked about last week.”

_***_

_Now_

January, ?? 2047

Lance was almost 100% sure that he was being watched. He hadn’t really considered it until he thought back to his first happy experience with the fun little vent that shot evil gas out of its misleadingly innocent white slits.

He’d just torn off the seams of the fabric connecting his long-sleeved shirt to the gloves he’d been wearing when the gas had leaked out. It had happened suspiciously quickly. Like _down to the second._ He hadn’t even had the chance to take off the glove yet. And then he’d woken up in a straitjacket. Almost like someone had seen him wrecking their weird kidnapping experiment and taken measures to correct it. When Lance had made that connection, well, it was hard not to feel like a lab rat.

It was… unsettling to say the least.

Actually, he’d determined that he felt like less than a lab rat. At least they fed lab rats.

He didn’t know how long he’d been in this fucked up slice of heaven, not with the multitude of blackouts he’d been privy to, but he was hungry. Not like a ‘Hey, I could go for a bite right about now.’ more like a ‘fuck man, if we don’t stop at the closest restaurant I’m going to literally eat my own arm off.’ kind of hungry.

In all honesty, it was actually kind of nice to have the hunger to focus on instead of the rather complicated predicament he seemed to be caught up in.

He wasn’t sure what to do to rectify his hunger at the moment. Tied up in the jacket as well as being trapped in a room without a door, he was almost certain that there wasn’t anything he _could_ do.

His stomach rumbled, for what must have been the tenth time that minute, and he let out an undignified groan.

He was tired and hungry and sore in so many places. Also the lights were a constant source of agony.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see the brightness of the space. He couldn’t even bury his head in his arms anymore, not with them bound like limp fish to his torso. The entire situation was rapidly moving from nerve rattling frightening to unearthly frustrating.

Going back to his main train of thought though, Lance was almost completely certain that there was a camera in the top corner of the room, watching his every move. Which, well, he hadn’t really moved much anyways so he’s not sure what kind of show they were expecting, but that was beside the point.

Like, talk about a breach of privacy. Ha.

Lance deflates in on himself. He wasn’t quite sure how he could deliver the punchline of a joke, in his own mind, with no one but himself as an audience, and still have the joke fall through and land flat on its ass.

He was just exhausted. Which felt stupid since he’d literally done nothing but sit in a puddle of self-pity since he’d woken up, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. It made him want to punch something. Which he couldn’t do. It also made him want to sleep… which he also couldn’t do. Not with the blaring lights and the constant rumble of hunger stinging his consciousness. Then he wanted to scream, which- actually, that was something he was physically able to do. He considered it for a second. Rolled the idea around in his mouth. On one hand, the people watching the Lancey-Lance kidnapped and drugged channel would probably think he was off his rocker. On the other… they had _kidnapped and drugged him_.

So, fuck ‘em.

Lance let out a little groan of frustration. A tiny warm up sound. It echoed.

Clearing the stiffness out of his throat, Lance let out another sound, just slightly louder. Absently he wondered if his little monitored room was also mic’d. He wouldn’t put it past them. Whoever Them were. He hopped that the room was bugged, and he hopped that they were listening at full volume. With that nice little thought in mind, Lance let a deep breath rush into his lungs, felt the forward shift of his arms as his stomach adjusted to make room for the new air flowing into his chest. He held that breath for a second, feeling the way it felt expanding his lungs and pressing against his ribs.

And then a yell was pouring out of him. He pushed all his frustration and annoyance and hunger and stress into the shout. Feeling as the noise pushed its way out of his esophagus and sent vibrations bouncing off the walls on every side of him. Lance relished in the noise, hopping that he’d reasonably spooked the person on the other end of the camera.

When his lungs finally felt near empty, straining with the last of the oxygen, he let the sound taper off into nothing. In the sudden silence of the room, it felt obligatory to draw another deep breath into his body and let out another scream at full blast. He didn’t feel an ounce of regret as his voice cracked and sputtered, or when his vocal cords threatened to close up entirely to stop him from scratching them raw.

Jaw aching and throat dry as a bone, Lance slumped low against the wall, head dangling between his shoulders tiredly.

By the end of it all, he really wasn’t sure if the outburst had made him feel better or worse. It certainly hadn’t made him any less hungry, and it hadn’t helped him get out of the room either. He sighed and rolled fully onto the ground, not stopping until he was entirely on his front. Weight heaped heavily onto his bound arms. He relaxed a little. In the right position, he could press his arms into his stomach and force it to pretend it wasn’t eating itself into oblivion. Pressing his forehead into the floor, he could also appreciate the slight shadow that his body cast. It was only marginally darker, the light still lingering on the edges around him, but it was enough of a victory for him. He let the exhaustion in his flesh penetrate the deep parts of his mind, feeling fleetingly the ounce of gratitude to whatever god was finally letting him sleep, before he was pulled under the warm embrace of unconsciousness.

***

_Then (4 years before)_

Nov 21, 2043

“Hey, mullet!” Lance shouted over the heads of people. He got some turned heads but he was focused on the figure hunched over a work book at a park picnic table.

Keith looked up from his assignment, his surprise bordering on offended expression melted into an almost fond exasperation. “Oh, hey Lance.” There was that cute little almost smile on his lips that never failed to make Lance’s knees wobble.

“Whatcha working on?” He asked as he settled at the table across from Keith. Instead of waiting for an answer, Lance grabbed the book and spun it around to look at it. Surprisingly, Keith didn’t protest at the blatant thievery, just slouched over the table with a yawn. In all honesty, Lance’s eyes may have been on the book but his attention was on the boy across from him. He couldn’t even really focus enough to read any of the words. He looked up again when Keith started to speak.

“Poem analysis.” His head was propped on his arms, looking up at Lance though tired eyes, “I’ve been working on it all morning. Gone over every line at least ten times and I’m even more lost than I was at the start.”

Lance glanced down at the paper for real this time and noticed the scribbled writing along the margins and all over the actual printed words. He felt a twinge of sympathy when he flipped through the sheets to notice that the particular poem Keith was working on stretched on for about fifteen pages. Double sided.

“Yikes.” He frowned plopping the book back onto the table, “When’s it due?”

Keith shrugged, “Yesterday.”

“Dude.”

“I know.”

“Want a pick me up?” Lance bit his lip, now maybe wasn’t the best time but… _take a risk before it’s too late._ “I know a good coffee shop down the road and I promise to let you get back to work right after.”

Keith perked up a little, the coffee fiend. He and Pidge basically lived on the stuff. “That would actually be awesome, I feel like I’m about to pass out right now. Caffeine might be exactly what I need.”

They walked down to the café together, laughing and joking the whole way. It was nice. More than nice. And it felt like a date to Lance but, he wasn’t sure that he’d really gotten the message across.

They’d gone out for coffee together before so maybe Keith didn’t think anything of it. Which was a bummer, especially when he left again to go work on his overdue project. Without a kiss, which was like, basic first date procedure. So. Not a date. Fine. It had only been two days since Veronica’s motivational speech, but Lance wouldn’t say no to another one right about now. Or maybe she was just full of shit, which was a distinct possibility.

***

_Now_

January??, 2047

There was no way out. The vent was too high on the ceiling to even consider crawling in. (Plus Dangerous Knockout Gas™, gross.) The door only opened when a white masked uniformed person padded in on silent feet to drop off his bland, and always white, meal. Consisting of plain white rice and some bread alongside a cup of water. The door remained shut at all other times, without so much as a handle on his side. There were no accessories inside the room, no bed, no toilet, nothing. He was able to relieve himself once in what he assumed had been a day. Being led through a short, white hall to a small white restroom.

No one ever spoke to him, ignoring him like he wasn’t even there. They were just faceless people that kept him alive. It made him want to scream again. Even when he did, his will crumpling to the urge, more often than not it left him feeling worse than before.

Another thing that he’d found made him want to shove the first person he saw into the closest garburator, was how hard the simple task of eating had become. It wasn’t even the fact that the bland meal was awful and actually pretty hard to choke down with his increasingly undernourished body, it was just that the mechanics of getting the food to his mouth managed to be stupidly difficult. Most of the time, he would lay on his stomach (more on his arms really) and lift his head into the bowl. Like a dog, he would lick the grains of rice into his mouth. It was ridiculous and he felt really stupid but it got the job done. If he felt up to it, he would screw around until he managed to get the bowl resting on his forearms and eat more like the human he was supposed to be. Drinking the water was also a challenge that required some creativity. Many of the ways he’d attempted had resulted in major spillage. Like that time he’d used his mouth to create a suction inside the cup then flicked his head back. Water had splashed everywhere. Like, up his nose too. Never again. Another disagreeable method was pinching the cup between his chest and forearms. Not enough pressure and it falls through, too much and the frail styrofoam bursts. The most effective way was to use his teeth at the edge of the cup and tilt it slowly towards the ground. That, my friends, is how to drink water out of a small breakable cup while wearing a straight-jacket. Man, you really did learn the most useful things while isolated in a tiny ass room with nothing to do. There were so many places he could apply this knowledge in the real world.

Basically, everything was one million times harder in movement constrictive attire. Obviously. He had been in it for an immeasurable amount of time and it was really starting to get on his nerves.

He wasn’t really sure how long he’d been in his cell. Certainly a long time. A few weeks minimum. At least, it felt like that long. Time felt kind of funny. Meal intervals and bathroom adventures aside, there wasn’t really any indication that time was even passing. The lights stayed on constantly, chasing any shadows away. It made sleeping difficult. Impossible even. Both times he’d been exhausted enough to sleep, it had been fitful and short. He woke up even more drained.

He wasn’t really sure how he got to be so tired in the first place. It’s not like there was much to do. The only thing he did consistently was think and it was getting old really fast.

He’d been thinking about his family mostly. Trying to guess what they were doing. Were they looking for him? Were there pictures of his face on milk cartons? Actually, that was a pretty funny thought. If he got out of here, he would definitely have to get his hands on one of those.

If.

That was a scary idea. Spending everyday stuck in a small white room for the rest of his life. What would happen to his body? Would they leave it in here to rot? Send it back to his family? A shiver racked his spine at the thought of little Sylvio unwrapping his corpse with a scream. Maybe Rachel would be the one to do it. Or Veronica. Luis or Mamma. It was those kind of thoughts that would send him spiralling in a way that he couldn’t stop. Playing out awful scenes in his head that left him reeling in horror. And guilt. So much guilt. He was putting them all through hell. Mamma and Papa’s missing son. His siblings missing brother. His nieces and nephew’s missing uncle. What could they do but worry and worry and worry- How could he do this to them all? You didn’t do that to the people you love.

But he was helpless. More so than he’d ever been in his life. More hopeless than he’d ever felt.

There really was no way out. No loophole. 

He was going to die in here.


	2. Formal shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Lance are cute, Hunk and Lance are basketball boys and Shiro needs some carpet cleaner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter took me longer than I thought it would to sort out so I apologize for the late update. I did add a few extra parts though as I am physically unable to stop myself from limiting the klance fluff. Hope that makes up for it a little.  
> There is a bit of swearing and a mention of sex but otherwise I think it's a pretty chill chapter. Hope you enjoy.  
> (Also I apologize for any errors, I don't have a beta for this fic and there is only so many times I can re-read my own work without it all looking a little wonky. Happy reading everyone!)

_Then (8 years before)_

September 7, 2039

Hunk and Lance had been playing basketball together since the first year of Uni. It’s actually where they’d met. On the court, scoring some serious net.

Or that’s what they told the others anyway. What had actually happened was way more embarrassing.

There Lance had been two whole years ago; a foreigner from Cuba, hovering just near the entrance of the gym with the ‘Recreational Basketball Intramurals Starting Soon!’ flyer hanging from his hand. The gym is pretty empty, one or two people at each net, but Lance is pretty sure he’s a few minutes early anyway. The few lingering nerves in his stomach are keeping him from grabbing a ball even though he knows that’s kind of the whole point. Still, he stays rooted to the spot, eyes wandering over the inhabitants of the room. He’d been watching a fit boy, long white hair tied away from his face with a purple band, scoring multiple three pointers across the gym, (likely to impress the gaggle of girls watching from the overhead view in the library. Showoff.) when a ball had come barrelling into the side of his head.

The stiff rubber had smacked hard against his temple, leaving him dazed but thankfully un-concussed. He’d stood there for a solid few seconds, head dizzy from the impact, when a big dude came rushing over to him, apologies falling from his mouth before he’d even reached Lance.

“Oh man, I’m so sorry!” The guy had gushed, hands flying up as if to pat Lance’s head before thinking better of the action. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, the ball slipped out of my hands!” A yellow headband was tied around his forehead, keeping back is dark hair. He was at least a foot taller than Lance, even while his shoulders were hunched in concern making him seem a few inches shorter. “I didn’t even see you. Holy crap, I’m so sorry.” He seemed it too, eyebrows lowered in apology and Lance realized all at once that he should probably be reassuring him. “Do you need ice? I’m sure I could find some if you-”

“Whoa, buddy. I’m all good, I swear.” Lance cut in, knocking on his head with his fist appeasingly, “Thick skull and all.” He grinned up at the big guy and saw his shoulders lift in relief. “Not to mention all the times my siblings ‘lost control of the ball’. He finger quoted, rolling his eyes. A good-natured laugh erupted from his acquaintance. “I’m Lance, by the way.” He was never one to back down from social interaction, and if this could be his first friend in the unfamiliar environment then it wasn’t something Lance was going to let slip away.

“Hunk. Nice to meet you.” The big guy had replied, wide smile stretching across his face as he shook Lance’s hand. “Sorry about the ball again, I haven’t played in a while so I’m a little rusty.” Hunk winced apologetically.

“Nah man, it’s all good.” Lance replied, hunching to scoop up the fallen basketball. “I get it, the amount of times it happened in high school is unbelievable.” Spinning the ball once, Lance felt his fingers brush over all the black divots in the orange surface. “No harm no foul, right?” Dribbling the ball a few times, Lance looks up at Hunk with a sheepish smile, “Anyway, I’m here to meet new people so mission accomplished.”

Hunks entire face lifted, “No way, same here!” He smiles, accepting the ball when Lance tosses it over to him, “I played in high school too so I swear hitting you in the head was a one-time thing.” Lance laughed with him as they walked over to the net Hunk had been using previously. “I’m really more of a soccer guy, but I’m tall so basketball was kind of an easy shoe in for me. This intramural thing seemed like a good way to make some friends.”

They start with some free shots, alternating shooters and ball collector. Hunk, while having said he was only a decent player, makes almost all his shots. Lance is impressed to say the least. “It’s my first year here,” Lance starts, lining up his shot, “I’m from Cuba, got in here on a basketball scholarship actually.” Shooting, Lance holds his form while the ball sinks into the net, he grins, nothin’ but net. “What about you?”

Hunk shrugs, catching the ball before it hits the ground, “One of the best engineering programs in the country.”

Trading their positions, Lance hovers near the net. “Oh ho ho, an engineer huh?”

“Yup,” is Hunks reply, steadying himself as he takes his shot. The ball banks off the back board, falling through the hoop with a satisfying ‘swish’. “I’m minoring in culinary arts though, keeping my options open, you know?”

“Ah,” Lance sighs, tucking the ball under his arm as a whistle sounds, “Basketball player, soccer player, engineer and chef.” Lance ticks off on his fingers, “Anything you can’t do?”

Huffing out an embarrassed snicker under his breath, they both fall quiet as the coach rattles off the obligatory introduction.

Then, as if the universe had planned it, the supervisor was halfheartedly instructing to make pairs for two vs two scrimmages.

Lances smile grew as he turned to shoot Hunk a look, “How do you feel about teaming up to show Goldilocks over there how to really play basketball?” He nodded to the guy across the gym currently spinning a ball on his pinky finger looking for all the world uninterested in the attention he was receiving.

Hunks eyebrows rose, “You mean Lotor?” He glanced over his shoulder before returning Lances grin, “Oh man, you are so on.” 

And just like that, a friendship had been born. One to last years and years, Hunk and Lance; sailing the rocky sea of university together; through thick and thin never to be torn apart. They’d made plans; enlisted the next semester as roommates and the rest was history.

***

_Now_

Date unknown

There were exactly six types of exercises Lance had found he’s was actually able to do.

The idea had come to him while he was attempting (and failing) to sleep. The idea to get off his ass and do something.

It was a sudden urge to be productive and not just sit in a pathetic puddle of his own sadness. Like one of those moments you get while lying in bed at night, unable to sleep due to the four cups of coffee currently flowing its way through your piece of junk body, where out of nowhere you get the motivation to get your life together. Start eating right, working out, educating yourself on important topics. Those sorts of things. Of course, when Lance used to get those fun little moments, the determination he had to do those things had sort of fizzled out by morning. An interesting fast food place he passed on his way to work, a new television show coming out, hanging with friends to complain about the awful existence of being a university student; were all things that had distracted him from his three am revised life agenda.

Not this time though. Nope. There wasn’t any distractions to keep him from doing exactly what he planned on doing. Well, eating right was a problem out of his control. Same with educating himself on useful information. That just left exercising. Yay.

Despite his obvious and energetic enthusiasm about his plentiful array of options, Lance had rolled clumsily to his feet. There was a little bit of anticipation rising in him, which was strange but not unexpected since it would be the first actual bit of movement in however many days.

In all honesty, he knew exactly why he felt tiny bit of excitement, even if it was too embarrassing to admit to himself.

Before his sudden surge of energy, he’d been day dreaming. Or possibly night dreaming depending on what the time was. But he hadn’t been sleeping. Whatever, it was awake dreaming and he kept reliving this ridiculous fantasy of fighting the faceless person who brought him his food. Well, not in a boxing match with the crowd roaring his name, but in his little cell in an effort to escape. First he would hit them with a head butt, then he would sweep their legs out with a cool spin kick he saw in an action movie once, then, when they were on the floor and helplessly dazed, either by his good looks or hit on the head, he would make a break for it. Out the door and into the hallway. Once there he would have an awesome armless battle with some unsuspecting guards where he would disarm them all (because it was his fantasy and he could do that, damn it.) and cut himself out of the strait jacket at last. This was the part where Lance was able to take some creative liberty. What would happen after his daring escape? What was the setting of this super-secret fucked up base of operation? Would there be a line of motorcycles waiting just outside the door for Lance to hop onto to make his get away? Would a gang of buff guys initiate a chase scene that ultimately ended in Lance escaping and a big ass explosion? Endless possibilities, absolutely endless. 

Realistically, he knew it was dumb and naive to day dream (awake dream, whatever.) about such a silly concept, but he couldn’t help it. Even if it was ridiculous, it was at least fun. Besides, it was only natural to pretend to be the hero in his own story. To be the knight in white armour instead of the damsel dressed in white. (Because there was a whole lot of fucking white in his story okay. An actual, unrealistically sad amount and not even his dreams could escape it.)

In any case, it was this train of thought that lead to his current circumstance. Where to start on his training- or uh, exercise routine.

Now, the problem was; Lance had never really ‘worked out’. Like of course he was active and got his sweat on from time to time. One couldn’t get a rockn’ bod like his by being a potato. The difference was that Lance liked to _do things_. Activities, sports, competitions and so on. He wasn’t really the ‘I spend 15 hours a day in the gym’ type of guy. He liked surfing, track meets and soccer games with his friends. Mostly basketball games of course, but even in the practices, Lance burned off some serious calories. Not the boring, ‘I’m going to look in this mirror while I lift this heavy object to 90 degrees repetitively.’ or alternatively, ‘Bro, watch this. I can bench two elephants and a pool table with one arm.’ Whatever they did in those germ infested sweat pits.

That’s not to say that Lance didn’t fully appreciate the impressive outcome of these low key hostile environments, because he did. Oh god, he appreciated and respected gyms more than people who invented gyms did. Keith was the type of guy that went to the gym and Lance swore on all things holy in the world that he had absolutely no complaints about that.

Still, Lance didn’t exactly watch Keith work out. Sometimes he wished he did (Because HOT) but sue him, he had a life with things to do.

Unfortunately, that meant Lance had a limited knowledge of exercises available to him. He had a fairly basic range of movements that he remembered from his oh so fun days of middle school gym class, but his list was cut in half by his stylish jacket. Pushups and burpees were a no. Same with planks and anything that involved running. Really everything that needed arms was out. Which basically just left legs. Squats, lunges, wall sits. All that good stuff. The ones that gave you a nice ass. Not that Lance’s ass wasn’t already fire, because it most definitely was, but it wouldn’t hurt to tone it up a little.

His first set had him feeling good. Like, serotonin through the roof levels of good. For the first time since getting locked in this cell, he didn’t feel like a worthless loser. It was a great feeling. One that made him do another set, and another. Even after his lungs started burning and his muscles began shaking, he pushed through it. Then he found he could manage some crunches which ultimately lead to sit-ups, and then a Russian twist situation that he wasn’t sure he was doing correctly but left his abs burning.

He kept at it and his body had never felt so good in his life. 

It was amazing, better than amazing, until it wasn’t. Until the lack of nutrition in his body caught up with him and he completely and utterly crashed. Until all the calories he couldn’t spare were burned up to nothing. Until he was light headed, queasy and nauseous. Collapsed from where he’d fallen from his over enthusiastic lunges, Lance’s head spun wildly. His vision had all but blacked out, the disgustingly fluorescent lights being the only thing able to penetrate the darkness. There was sweat at his temples that he couldn’t wipe away and the longer he sat there unmoving, the colder it got. The perspiration on his skin was doing its job in cooling down his temperature, it ended up being too efficient. Because his body was focused on keeping the contents of his stomach down as well as doing damage control on the stress he’d put his muscles through that they just didn’t have the protein to repair. Meaning that his body wasn’t concentrated on generating enough heat to keep him from shivering.

Lying there in his cold sweat, there was nothing Lance could do but close his eyes and hate life itself. He really was useless. Not even managing to make it through a simple six move exercise routine without almost passing out. Great Lance. Just great. If his stupid fantasy wasn’t realistic before, it sure as hell isn’t now.  
He knew he was going to feel like shit when he woke up, it was guaranteed, but his body was begging him to go to sleep. Close his eyes and knock the fuck out so his cells could do their best to fix the mess he’d made. It seemed like a good idea, so it’s exactly what he did.

***

_Then (4 years before)_

December 19, 2043

“I can’t believe you still have that thing.” Lance whinged exasperatedly from his position nestled snuggly between Keith’s legs. They were relaxing, or better, lounging on Shiro’s living room floor, and Lance was happily comfortable thank you very much. He was decked out in an atrociously ugly Christmas sweater, one with bells, pompoms, some glitter and even a few flashing lights, despite the holiday still being almost a week away. By some miracle, he’d managed to convince Keith to don a sweater of his own as well. It was a simple red thing with some random green plants here and there, mistletoe possibly or perhaps holly. Lance honestly couldn’t tell. It was a garland of one sort or another. While not overly bright or gaudy, it was a Christmas sweater through and through.

Propped up with his head pilled on a mound of pillows, Keith had one arm around Lance and the other fiddling with the small object in his hand. When Lance spoke, he’d looked down with a frown, quirking his eyebrow in question.  
“The bottle cap?” He asked, as if there were any number of things Lance could be addressing. “I dunno, I just kind of kept it after I caught it.” He smirked, “Might have been planning on throwing it back at you one day but I guess it grew on me.”

“Hmm.” Lance hummed, wiggling his fingers under the hem of the sweater to warm his chill fingers on Keith’s feverish skin. “That would have been petty of you.”

Keith snorted, slapping Lance’s hands away, “Yeah, but I decided to leave being petty up to you. You know, since you’re so good at it.”

Gasping in mock indignation, Lance plants his elbows by Keith’s head, lowering himself closer as he narrows his eyes, “Excuse you, I am not.” Lance sticks a finger into his chest accusingly, “You can’t tell me _I’m_ the petty one after you go and admit your plan right to my face.”

Keith’s hand has fallen to his waist, hand hot against the skin where the thick fabric is riding up. “What plan?” He’s at ease, calm and sure, his thumb starts absentmindedly stroking the exposed skin.

It’s hard for him to fake the scowl when what he really wants to do is drop down and relax into the others hold. “Your evil revenge plan.”

Smile peaking at his lips, Keith looks up at him through languorously lidded eyes. “Don’t think I had one of those.”

Clicking his tongue once, Lance uses his hand to sweep the bangs off Keith’s forehead, “Probably a good thing, I had a killer retaliation ready anyway.”

Keith leans into the touch, breathing deeply as Lance smooths the same hand down the front of his red sweater. “And what would that be?” He asks drowsily, humouring Lance like he’d hoped he would.

Stalling for a split second with a hum, Lance gets into position to strike. “Oh, nothing really, just this!” he digs his fingers into Keith’s sides, laughing when he jumps in surprise.

It was one of the best mornings of Lance’s life when he found out that bad boy Keith Kogane, is in fact, as ticklish as a toddler.

He screeches, actually _screeches,_ bucking around like he was being electrocuted rather than harmlessly tickled. Unwilling laughter filled the air, drowning out the light Christmas tunes playing lightly on the radio. Lance felt the grin on his face widen imperceptibly, Keith had the cutest uncontrollable laugh.

He doesn’t expect it when Keith flips them, pinning his arms under his body and responding with his own counter attack.  
Yes, Lance had grown up with an ass load of siblings, many of whom liked to torture him with the ancient art of tickling, and yet somehow, he’d never quite built up a resistance. Enough of one that when Keith’s hands find his sides, he manages to only let out a grunt instead of wild cackling, but not enough to be completely unaffected by the action.

He tries to squirm his arms out from where they’re wedged firmly under his torso, but Keith leans heavier on him, not enough to actually hurt but enough to stop his possible escape.

A shit eating grin has made its way onto Keith’s face, and a primal part of Lance screams at him to knock it off, bring him down a peg or two. A few months ago he might have acted on it, said something he would later regret just to get the upper hand in their competition. It’s different now though, way different, because they’re dating and Lance doesn’t need to best Keith at every little thing. He can be proud that Keith is the best in his class, excited for him when he succeeds at something he’s passionate about. He can sit here, nice and cozy with Keith’s steadying weight on top of him. That’s his exact thought process and he’s prepared to do just that, before he realizes Keith has managed to worm his hands up Lance’s woolen armour and jab at his ribs again. He shrieks more from surprise than anything else, but the smug expression Keith is wearing suggests he believes otherwise.

Alright, that demands payback.

Managing to slip one arm free from their prison, he’s about to strike-

“Hey!” Shiro shouts from the kitchen where he’d joined Hunk about an hour ago, cooking up a storm while Lance and Keith got their chill on, “No sex in the living room! I just had the carpet cleaned!”

Keith’s face turns red and while he’s distracted trying to object to Shiro’s statement, Lance is able to turn the tables in his favor, so to speak.

And then Keith is under him, flushed, cute and full of Christmas spirit. Just as everything should be.

The bottle cap is lying innocently by Keith’s head where it had been unhanded during their squabble. It hits Lance then how incredibly romantic it was that Keith had kept it. Neither of them would ever probably say it out loud, but it was very much one of those cheesy moments in movies that make you cringe, or be bedazzled by the love, depending on what type of person you were.

It’s a last minute idea, one he struggles to complete on time and to the level of quality he wants, but when he shows Keith the bottle cap necklace on Christmas day, it’s all worth it.

He gets some wicked sex that night, which isn’t exactly relevant or the point at all. Still worth mentioning though because it was extra hot when Keith wore the necklace throughout the entire thing.

Was the gift to simply one up Keith’s romance? No. Well- a little. Mostly it was because he loves him and would give the world to him and blah blah blah. Christmas joy and love and all-around happiness is the real priority, but if he falls asleep feeling the slightest bit smug at the view of the chain lying atop Keith’s chest, no one has to know.

***

_Now_

Date unknown

Lance had picked up a habit. An annoying habit. One he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. Want to, that was. The light tapping of his feet on the floor was the only thing keeping him sane.

He didn’t have great rhythm, many of the girls he’d attempted to woo back in the ripe days of middle school with his less-than-stellar singing skills would bear testimony to that. It wasn’t necessarily that he had a bad voice, he was just off by a beat or two. Singing in the wrong pitch, holding notes too long or not long enough. Sometimes he would just make up lyrics as he went, causing amusement from his classmates but not convincing them to fall madly in love with him. There was a plethora of reasons Lance hadn’t gone into the music business. Still, he could sit here and tap all he wanted, even without the rhythm of a god. No big deal, especially since there wasn’t exactly anyone to judge his tapping patterns.

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap… tap tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap…._

The beat came from some unused portion of his brain, buried deep in nostalgia, a half remembered tune controlled the tempo of his feet. Every now and again he would miss a beat, a cramp forming in his calf or something similar, but he would always go back to the steady flow. If nothing else, it was comforting. A single constant that he controlled. He could change at any moment if he wanted to. It wasn’t a virtue he had felt in a long while.

He couldn’t control what he ate, it was rice or starvation, he couldn’t control when he went to the bathroom, unless he wanted to piss himself he supposed, but he wasn’t certain he would ever get a wardrobe change if he did. Smelling like his own waste wasn’t how he wanted to live his boring ass life, thanks. The colour, shape and smell of the room was constant. Yet another thing he detested about his situation. Nothing ever changed. Like ever. The lights never flickered, the rice was never a different size. How that was even possible he wasn’t sure. Every individual gain of rice was identical. He’d stared at the food long enough that he would have been able to make out even the slightest variance in colour or any other aspect of it if there had been any. It made him wonder if there was someone out there sorting through his rice, disposing of any outliers just for the sake of depriving Lance of noticing any deviance from the flecks of white. That sounded like the most boring job to ever exist in the history of the world. Not that Lance wouldn’t take on the job willingly if anyone had the thought to ask. Anything would be better than the situation he was in now. Any job they wanted to throw at him he would do without question, without complaint, hell, he would be grateful for the opportunity. His pride had been destroyed so long ago that he would even consider groveling if the topic was whispered in his general vicinity. In all truthfulness, he would probably start crying the second he heard another voice. Hysterically crying, loudly enough for them to hear through the walls. Ugly sobbing type shit. The crap that gets cut from movies because it makes the supposedly sexy actors appear unappealing. Yeah, that shit. Snot running down his nose, blotchy red face, unattractively scrunched up face. The whole works.

If it would get him out of the room, there was almost nothing that he wouldn’t do.

But nothing happened. No spontaneous job offers or rice sorting applications. Just the tapping he’d become so familiar with.

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap… tap tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap…._

It echoed a little in the room. Not much and not very noticeably. The walls seemed to be designed to absorb sound. But if he listened close enough, closed his eyes and really focused, there was a split second where the noise would ring in the air a moment after he’d made it.

He listened because it felt real, the vibration bouncing off the wall made it feel like the world was still functioning. He could hear the tiny noise. It sounded real. Even if when he’d first woken in the room, it hadn’t been there. He told himself it was because he hadn’t been trained to hear it back then, hadn’t been tuned in on the delicate frequency of the echo. But deep down, he wondered if it was all in his head.

Soundproof walls didn’t make echoes. Logically, that should tip the scale in favor of reason. But he could hear it. Faint as it was, it was there. Maybe.

Or maybe he was going mental. Cookoo in the brain. Bonkers in the noggin. Loose screw in the ticker. It was entirely possible the tapping was actually hindering rather than helping. The repetitive nature. Why hadn’t he changed the pattern of the taps when all he wanted was, in fact, something to change? Was that not a sign of insanity? Repeating the same action with expectations of a different result. Who had said that? Einstein? He was supposedly a pretty smart dude. It was possible the guy had really been on to something there.

It might have been the reason he kept up the tapping, not because it was keeping him sane, but because if he was going mad, he himself would be the one to make it happen. Lance alone would drive Lance insane. Not the people in the box office beyond the camera, nor the guards posted in the hallway, but Lance. Because he was a stubborn little fucker that just liked to make shit difficult for everyone. Or something along those lines anyway.

He tried to push the thoughts from his mind. Not that it mattered if he succeeded in doing so. He wasn’t going to stop tapping, even if he decided it was the factor making him bored a one way flight to loony town. It was the one thing he could do without physically passing out. He wasn’t going to give it up if all it would cost him was his sanity.

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap… tap tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap…._

***

_Then (3 years before)_

June 29, 2044

“Clam down.”

“I _am_ calm.”

Lance shot him a look. Keith was fidgeting unconsciously, picking at his ripped jeans as he stared out the window of the car. They were passing the beautiful beaches only present in the magical world of Varadero, so Lance could understand the staring but Keith was biting his lip, gnawing on the same spot he always did before big tests. One of his biggest tells as far as Lance was concerned.

“Babe, seriously. You look like you’re about to pop a fuse or something.” Lance reached over with the hand not on the wheel and intertwined their fingers. “We’re visiting my family, not going to war, chill out.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Keith glance at him. He listens as the boy lets out a huff (something along the lines of ‘I know we aren’t, asshole.’ being muttered as he pouts), feels Keith’s steadying grip on his hand tightening.

They are quiet for a suspicious amount of time, the hum of the radio the only thing filling the anxious air between them. Glancing over for what must have been the hundredth time in the past minute, he clicks his tongue. The tension in Keith’s shoulders seems to be raising higher and higher the longer they drive.

Lance pulls the car over to the side of the road. It’s not difficult to tell when somethings bothering Keith. It started to get easy for Lance to gauge his mood once he learned how to read the general vibe radiating off the boy. Lance looks at his boyfriend, taking in the tense twist of his mouth and the scrunch of his eyebrows. It’s not quiet for long before Keith breaks the silence.

“What if they don’t like me?” Keith mumbles in a rush, like he’d been working up the courage. Lance turns fully in his seat to face him, brow furrowed. Keith is looking at him like it genuinely troubled him.

“You were worrying about this the whole flight over, weren’t you?”

Keith huffs again, pretty much a dead giveaway that, yes, he had been.

“They’re your family, it’s kind of a big deal.” Keith reasoned, lips pursed.

Lance sighs, how should he approach this? “Well, I love them, they mean the world to me. And you’re my boyfriend. Of course I want you guys to get along.” Keith’s face only tenses more, his anxiety seeming to skyrocket. Okay, so not like that. “Keith…listen, they’re going to love you okay? They just want me happy and you make me happy.”

It didn’t seem to do anything to dim Keith’s growing nerves. “Lance, you know I’m not exactly the ‘meet the parents’ type.” He pulls his hand back, running it through his dark hair.

Lance frowns, “What’s that supposed to mean?” His own hand drops to the cheap leather of the rental car. It’s cold where Keith’s hand was warm.

Blowing out a breath, Keith crosses his arms. Defensive. Okay, not a good sign. Lance regards him warily as the boy gathers his thoughts. “I just mean- I’m all…” He gestures vaguely at himself, “And you’re-” he cuts himself off, looking imploringly at Lance as if willing him to understand.

“Okayy…” Lance prompts slowly. He’s never felt so lost when trying to decipher Keith, they’re normally on the same page. Keith just stares at him, looking equally disorientated. Sighing, Lance tries, “Look, do you want to meet them?” Lance can’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach. If Keith really doesn’t want to do this, he’s not going to force him to. He’s not sure what he’ll say to his family but he’ll think of something.

Keith looks at him, arms dropping to his sides. “Of course I do.” He says softly.

“Then…what’s the problem?”

Keith licks his lips, “I just-” he sighs through his nose, looking down at his hands, “I don’t want to mess up okay?”

“Keith,” He can feel the disbelieving grin forming on his face, “There is almost no possible way for you to mess anything up.” Keith’s head snaps up, frowning. “Short of actually murdering someone, I don’t think it’s possible for any of them to even remotely dislike you.”

“What do you mean?”

Lance can feel blood rush to his face, “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything because it’s crazy embarrassing but,” Keith is looking at him like what he’s about to say is the most important thing in the whole world. It makes Lance’s heart melt, as if there was any way his family wouldn’t adore this idiot. “They already kind of love you? I- Well…” Lance scrubs at the back of his neck, “I might have been updating them on our relationship every time I call home?” He winces minutely. “I told them about every detail of our first date.” Lance is sure his face is bright red, “And, well, pretty much every one after too.” He can’t look at Keith as he says the next part, “My mom said I look happier when I talk about you.”

Lance internally winces at the embarrassing information he just revealed in the seconds is takes Keith to register his words.

“Really?” Keith sounds a little breathless, looks utterly dumbstruck.

“Really. I meant what I said earlier. They just want me to be happy.” He might be as red as a stop light, but that doesn’t stop him from sending a smile at his boyfriend.

Keith takes his hand again tentatively, “And I…?”

Lance locks their fingers together, “More than anyone I’ve ever met.”

A breath rushes out of the boy, shy smile on his face. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s do this.” He sounds a mix of determined and tentative. A strange combination that he somehow manages to pull off.

Lance grins, kissing the knuckles of Keith’s hand before moving the car out of park.

He might be okay with sharing that tidbit of information with Keith to calm him down, but he’s never, _never,_ going to tell him that his mom said that two years before they got together. That would just be…mortifying.

***

_Now_

Date unknown

Lance hated silence. He hated everything about it. The way people would shift awkwardly and wait for another person to say the first word. Wasting time that they would never get back avoiding eye contact and engaging in a polite but boring silence. He used to like being the one to ease that tension, to snap the tether that was keeping everyone at arm’s length. He liked being the one people relied on to make a gathering fun and entertaining. One bad joke from him was as good as a flashing neon sign saying “Okay now you’ve all bonded over the fact that I’m an idiot, let’s have some fun!”

It was one of his specialties, easing the polite but tentative air into one of easy friendship. Another was his way of lifting the mood. He could turn a sombre mood into a light one, a funny moment into a hilarious one, and polite silence into a loudly disgusted outrage. Not to say that the latter of the three was the most fun but it definitely had its highlights. Especially if Pidge was there to elevate his borderline nasty sex jokes into ones that had them both rolling on the ground while those around them gagged on the pure obscenity of the image they’d planted in their mind.

Before, he wasn’t sure if he had placed himself into that role because of his hate for silence or his love for camaraderie, but either way; it had become his job. A way of life that his friends had just learned to accept. There were no silent moments when Lance was in the room. 

Or that’s what he used to think.

There were a lot of silent moments where he was now.

The endless amounts of silence was what Lance hated most of all. Not the jacket, not the food, not even the constant light. He hated the way his ears strained to pick up on the smallest nonexistent sounds. Hated how stupid he felt when he talked out loud for no reason other than to hear something. His own voice was becoming as awful to hear as the silence. He hated how sure he was that someone was watching him, how they could see how uncomfortable he was in his little cell. All they had to do was push a button and let him out. But they didn’t.  
He was stuck in the silence like a fly in tar.

And that made Lance hate it so much more.

***

_Then (3 years before)_

June 29 2044

There is music playing softly from the open house windows when they pull the rental car into the drive way.

The air is hot and humid and it does funny things to Keith’s hair. He’s petting it down nervously with his hands as Lance moves the car into park. It would be funny, how frazzled his boyfriend looks at the prospect of meeting his family, if he didn’t look like he was seconds away from having an internal meltdown.

Lance turned to him, twisting further than the seats were designed to allow.

“You do realize that you’ve already met most of them, right?”

Keith glared at him, either indicating that he hadn’t thought of that or that Lance was being an idiot. It was anyone’s guess which one it was at the moment.

“That was different.” He scoffed, returning to his reflection in the passenger side window and smoothing down his shirt. It was a crisp, deep black, one of the only shirts Keith owned without a ripped seam or gaping hole. When Keith had pulled it out this morning, he had the audacity to call it his formal shirt.

“How?” Lance asked, more amused than anything. The second Keith stepped through the front door of his childhood home, Lance was confident all his worries would be wiped away in a series of crushing hugs and possibly embarrassing anecdotes of Lance’s antics as a kid.

“It was over the phone, Lance. It’s just different.” Keith was messing with his hair again, accidentally making it worse somehow.

“Mhmm.” Lance hummed, taking pity on the boy and reaching over to flip down the overhead mirror he seemed to have forgotten.

Unfortunately, Keith had forgone his signature jacket and fingerless gloves. Muttering this morning under his breath about good impressions. Even when Lance had insisted that his family wouldn’t care about how he dressed or what accessories he wore, Keith hadn’t budged.

It was actually a pretty strange morning, when Lance had arrived at Keith’s apartment to pick him up, he hadn’t been ready. Which was…very unusual to say the least. Keith was the kind of person that took ten minute showers and threw on whatever clothes happened to be closest to him. Even before they’d started dating, it was Lance that held them up because of his fussing.

Not today though, nope, it was Keith that had made them almost miss their flight.

Walking up to Keith’s flat was as natural as ever. Saying Lance was over there a lot would be the understatement of the century. His boyfriend had his own place, free of interruption, sue him if Lance liked to take advantage of that little fact. Lance even had his own side of the room and as many clothes in Keith’s closet as he did in his and Hunk’s dorm. But that was beside the point.

The point was that when he let himself into the apartment, Keith was nowhere near ready.

Like, clothes flung across the floor, breakfast burning on the stove, Kosmo running around the room wreaking general havoc kind of unready. Then there was Keith’s suitcase half unpacked on the couch, toiletries and other items strewn across it like they’d been thrown. The television was turned on to a seemingly random channel, the sound of the characters talking just slightly overpowered by the water running in the bathroom.

The utter chaos was enough to halt Lance in his tracks.

“Uh… Keith?” He called, dropping his keys into the bowl on the counter. He moved to take the charred pan off the heat, glancing down to find something that could have resembled eggs had it not been abandoned to burn down Keith’s kitchen. Taking care of the dish best as he can, he turns on the fan and opens a window hoping to at least make the air less foggy. He isn’t entirely sure that the pan can be rescued though. Certainly not in the hour and a half they had to make it to the airport. Lance had planned on stopping at the store to buy a funny gag gift for his brother’s wedding, but surveying the situation around him, he assumes that will not be the case.

Ditching the unsalvageable pan in the sink, Lance moves into the living room switching off the TV and accepting the singular sock that Kosmo trots over to present him.

“Keith?” He calls again, hoping that this is just Keith messing around and not the result of an actual break in and possible murder.

There’s a curse from the bedroom, some shuffling and a loud crashing noise before he hears a muffled, “In here.”

The door squeaks quietly on the hinges as Lance nudges it open.

Keith is buried shoulder deep in the bottom of his closet, rummaging around hurriedly. His alarm clock, a robust block of a thing, is laying on the ground a few feet away, presumably the object having made the crashing sound seconds before. Perhaps having been kicked off? Lance doesn’t ask, only moves to pick it up. He winces when Keith hits his head on the wall as he straightens.

“Babe,” Lance starts, a hesitantly amused but-also-kind-of-concerned smile forming on his face. “What are you doing?”

Rubbing the back of his head angrily, Keith holds up the swath of black fabric retrieved from the back of his closet. “Formal shirt.” He says as way of explanation.

Ah, that would explain the mess of clothes on the ground and torn apart suitcase on the couch.

“Right. But, uh…” Lance gestures to the open bedroom door, “Weren’t you going to drop Kosmo off at Shiro’s this morning?” He settles on the easiest of the many questions he has built up.

Keith blinks up at him, a stupidly cute dumbfounded expression on his face. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine thirty.” Lance answers as he sets the heavy clock back on the night stand.

Keith absolutely blanches. Jumping up and running around like a mad man until Lance is able to grab a hold of his shoulders and still his frantic pace.  
“Whoa, wow, okay, first of all; chill out.” Gripping his shoulders to quiet Keith’s sound of protest. He shoots him a look until Keith begrudgingly inhales a deep breath. “Great, now you’re going to grab a quick shower, I’m going to repack your bag, then we’re going to race like hell to Shiro’s. All we have to do at the airport is get through security and check our bags. Alright?”

Letting out the breath, Keith grunts out a quick “Okay.” And he’s off.

It was a little disorientating at first to see Keith, strong usually unfazed Keith, all frazzled and unorganized, but in hindsight it was kind of cute.

Whipped Lance, absolutely whipped.

Lance sighed fondly, watching as Keith squints at himself in the tiny mirror.

Reaching into the backseat to snatch up his bag was no easy task, twisting around and lifting it required a bit of core strength, but he managed it alright. Ah, the things he did for love. Rustling around to find what he was looking for was worth it once he saw Keith reaching up for his hair again.

“A-bah bah bah.” Lance tutted, catching his hand before it could worsen the mess. “Enough of that. C’mere, if you’re going to be a perfectionist about it we’re going to do it properly.”

Lance carefully slid his hand behind Keith’s head, drawing him closer.

The armrest between them kept Lance from climbing into his lap, but it didn’t stop him from pulling Keith as close as was possible. Bringing the comb up to Keith’s unruly hair, he started to run it though the dark strands. The tangles he encountered were easily dealt with and he had the added bonus of Keith relaxing slightly under his touch. It hadn’t taken Lance a very long time to learn that Keith really liked having his hair played with.

“So what are we thinking?” Lance tapped the comb against his chin, purely for dramatic purposes. “Slicked back?” Pushing the bristles through Keith’s hair was easy, likely from his shower this morning almost like he- like he actually _used conditioner for once in his life_. Deciding not to mention it, Lance works diligently instead on smoothing his dark hair away from his face. Lance hummed, admiring his boyfriend shamelessly. “Given me some secret spy vibes there, Babe.” The side of Keith’s mouth twitched. “But maybe…” Lance parted his hair down the middle, letting his bangs flop limp by his cheeks. “Ah, like the lead singer in an emo band. All my prepubescent fantasies are coming true.” Swooning for effect, Lance almost missed the unimpressed look Keith shot him.

“I’m not going in like this.” He states flatly, eye flicking back to Lance from where they’d been assessing himself in the mirror. And yeah, he still looked attractive, but it wasn’t the same fluffy and ruffled look Keith was known for.

Smiling, Lance took the comb to his hair again, styling it in a neater version of his usual ‘I woke up like this’ hairdo.

When he was done, his left hand strayed to his cheek, the right falling to the back of his neck still griping the comb.

“There, sexy as always.” Lance whispers. Looking down he finds Keith’s eyes trained on his face, like the entire world had fallen away and Lance was all he could see. “Y’know there seriously isn’t anything to worry about, right?” Scanning his face with that slow intensity Lance knew so well, Keith didn’t look convinced but he nods anyway. His encouraging words from the drive over seemed to have worn off. “You could walk in there with a mohawk and they wouldn’t judge you.” Lance leaned forward until their foreheads were touching, “They’re cool like that.” Keith smiled a little at his words. He’d been subject to so many exaggerated stories about Lance’s childhood that he knew a bit about everyone. Still there was an underlying nervousness in his eyes that Lance’s jibes couldn’t seem to shake. “Hey, talk to me. What are you thinking about?” Lance asked softly, encouragingly.

Keith pulled away slightly, wetting his lips as he glanced away. Lance used the hand on his face to turn him back gently, not letting the subject drop.

Swallowing hesitantly, Keith held his gaze. “I just- don’t have a lot of experience with family.”

He felt his heart drop. He should have guessed. Keith had taken a while to open up, but over the years Lance had been able to piece together most of the puzzle. Every time Keith would offer up a short memory, Lance would understand another part of his story. It was a lonely one up until a few years ago. Full of foster homes and uncaring guardians. It also explained his nervousness, all the insecurity he fought so hard to keep covered raising to the top. “I want them to like me, Lance.” Keith mumbled, looking up at him like he’d just admitted a dirt secret instead of an achingly, heartbreakingly sweet revelation.

“I think they will.” Lance let his fingers drag lightly along Keith's jaw, “I like you.” Keith doesn’t smile, but his brows do unfurrow slightly. A small win, but a win nonetheless. “Look, I get it okay? That you want them to like you, I really _really_ get it.” Keith’s eyes are entrancing in all situations, but right here; right now, Lance doesn’t think there’s anything in the world that could make him look away. “But I need you to trust me on this.” He runs his thumb across Keith’s cheekbone as he talks, swiping away a rebellious lock of hair. “You don’t have anything to prove. Not to me and not to any of them.” He smiles a little, “I like you the way you are so just be your usual grumpy self.”

Keith huffs, pushing him back by the shoulder, but Lance can see the way his lips tug up at the sides.

“Alright, whatever let’s just- do this. Let’s just do this.” Keith rolls his neck, looking more like he’s about to charge into a battle field than walk into Lance’s house.

“Hey,” Lance whispered, snagging the collar of Keith’s ‘formal shirt’ and pulling him in for a nice long, slow kiss. “You’re going to be great in there soldier.”

The dazed look on Keith’s face instantly drops.

“I hate you."

Laughing, Lance steps out of the car, indulging in a long stretch. “Sure you do, now get your sexy ass out here. We’ve got a war to win.”

***

_Now_

Date unknown

Keith. Keith was a safe thought. They didn’t know about Keith. Thinking about Keith didn’t send his thoughts spiralling to a dark place like his family always seemed to. An image of him floated through Lance’s head. Keith was leaned up against a brick wall, the oranges and reds making his dark figure stand out strikingly. Leather jacket accenting his broad shoulders and accentuating his narrow waist, the supple material contrasting starkly against his light grey shirt. His black jeans were ripped, more so out of actual wear and tear than trendy fashion, but it worked for him. The ever present fingerless gloves were half hidden where his hands were shoved in the pockets of the thick leather coat. It was actually a jacket Lance's mom had given him, she'd seen the short cropped red one he used to wear religiously and sent him home with one that would 'actually keep him warm'. Keith, of course, still had the stupid red jacket, even pulled it on once in a while if he was in the mood to annoy Lance, but he stuck to the new one most of the time. He was more into the function of the clothing rather than style, and he'd said so too, as if he hadn't already proved that fact time and time again. And, you know what, it was, in truth, extremely unfair how good he looked in leather. Like drop your pants in the middle of the produce aisle and fuck me on top of the celery kind of good. Oh, not to mention the thoughts that Lance had when his leather clad boyfriend sat straddled on his motorcycle… Not good thoughts. Very bad thoughts. Such steamy thoughts that the people around him were blushing without even knowing why. Ideas so incredibly naughty; three little old ladies get simultaneous heart attacks all around the world. Hot, saucy and seven different levels of spicy kind of thoughts. The scenarios he saw flash before his eyes could put even the most raunchy pornos to shame.

Now, Lance knew that Keith liked leather because of the durability, it kept him warm and it didn’t need a lot of upkeep. Lance liked leather because it made Keith look like a badass-motherfucker and that shit was sexy as sin. The things he would do to that boy if Keith asked- A horny Lance was only a good Lance if he was out of the public eye.

Anyways.

What was he thinking about before his little…tangent?

Right, Keith against the brick wall, sexy in his stupid leather jacket, watching Lance like he was the only thing in the world. That look, the one with lowered brows and those intense, unique dark eyes, was probably the only thing that rivaled his kink for leather.

There was a familiar smirk etched on his handsome face, one he only ever used when looking at Lance. A fire lit in his stomach at the thought. His hidden hands were most likely playing with that stupid bottle cap from so long ago. Back when he used to keep it in his pocket like a loser, before Lance’s incredible and amazingly romantic gift from so long ago.

A breeze ruffled his already mused hair, shifting it around his forehead wildly, like he was part of a trailer for a bad romcom movie. Like those ones that he hated getting dragged to where the women squeal at everything and the men are dumb lumps that have lame one liners and awful facial hair. Lance was completely certain that Keith only fell for the clever pickup lines he himself delivered because of how utterly charming he was. (Or because the boy was stupidly in love but that was unconnected.) His gaze was locked on Lance. Following his movements through the crowd of blurry faces, watching him like a cat does a mouse before a hunt. The feeling was exhilarating.

The image seared itself into his brain.

The man was all glinting eyes and sharp angles. And boy, did it send Lance’s stomach flipping. God, Lance wanted to be wrapped in his arms. To bury his face in soft black hair and inhale the comforting smell of his boyfriend’s crappy shampoo. All Lance wanted was to be safe again. And Keith, well, Keith made Lance feel safer than anyone he’d ever met. The boy cared so fiercely, so wildly, that he gave all of himself away. Every action, every word, they all meant something. All the memories they had together, all the moments they'd shared, every one of them made Lance feel safe. 

Keith and his cute little smile, the happy one he wore when it was just them alone together. The way his hair flopped over his eyes when his lifted his head sleepily from the pillow. How the vibrant colours of a sunset reflected pastel light across his features. How his eyes softened when Lance told him he loved him for the first time. Yeah, Keith was a safe thought. If you think of him, you’ll be fine.

You’re not trapped, you’re not alone; you’re safe. Safe in that one moment. Nothing but a brick wall, sharp eyes, leather and smiles. Nothing but Keith. Because Keith is a safe thought. Just- just think of Keith. 


	3. Food fights and Weddings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The McClain family makes an appearance and Lance has a crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an insatiable need to write Lance McClain, he's such an amazing character and I love using this fic to explore some of his different angles. Hope you enjoy the third chapter! Some concepts are starting to get heavier!

_Then (2 years before)_

November 13, 2045

It’s not necessarily that his space was cluttered, Lance just had a lot of stuff. There were mounds of skin care products spread across Keith’s bathroom counter, despite the boy using a literal bar of free hotel soap for his own night routine. They were all Lance’s. He even had them organized into category and time of day to use. His morning routine products were on the far left, nice and snug against the wall and mirror, his night routine was beside that. They were the two of the biggest piles so he put them in proximity to each other while his specific scenario serums were littered neatly along the right side of the counter. His organized chaos was then split into subdivisions, moisturizers, cleansers, primers, exfoliators and the like. Many words Lance would use and watch Keith’s face crumple in confusion. He had face masks, clay, charcoal, sheet, bubble, and a variety of others in the specific and miscellaneous category. On rare occasions, he could cajole Keith into doing a night of relaxation where he would proceed to swarm him in an avalanche of products. Sometimes Keith would even understand what was going on. He was learning. Lance was so proud.

And while Keith reluctantly participated in the proceedings, his glowing skin the next day was never enough to stop him from complaining about the lack of space in the bathroom.

The system Lance had set up apparently didn’t make any sense to him and one time he’d rearranged it to make more counter space. Basically clumping everything into a big group to the right of the sink, slotting rectangular items together and stacking all the products that were stack-able until there were several large precariously tilting piles of cream. To the untrained eye it looked fine, like a normal obsessive yet neat pile of every imaginable skin care product under the sun. But to Lance, oh ho ho. It was a problem. A mess of items that should never be found next to each other. Some of his most used jars were at the bottom of a tower, and his favourite sheet masks were crushed behind the mass of pots, completely inaccessible. He froze in his tracks the second the door had opened.

His eyes had scanned over the products, surprise halting him for a moment before he was whirling around and storming into the kitchen.

Keith was at the stove, a wooden spoon held at the ready over the oil spitting pan.

“Heyy sweetie,” Lance drawled, leaning his forearms on the island between them, “You wouldn’t happen to have seen who rearranged my stuff in the bathroom, would you?” He asked, glaring at Keith’s mullet.

Shooting a short look over his shoulder, Keith turns back to the pan with a simple, “Can’t say I have.”

Eyes narrowing at the broad shoulders of his boyfriend, Lance continues, “Mhm, that’s good because whoever did completely destroyed my system.”

Keith didn’t look at him, those same shoulders rising with a huff of laughter, “Destroyed huh? Sounds serious.”

“Oh very, everything is in the wrong place. Some things look structurally unsafe. Seems like a major safety hazard to me.” Lance quips, picking at his nails as he tries and fails at being casual, “Just walking in put my life in danger.”

That gets Keith to look at him, unconvinced eyes pinning him in place, “More counter space put your life in danger?”

Lance schools his face into something somber, putting the days of school plays to good use, “I barely got out alive.” Keith snorts, rolling his eyes back to the food in front of him. Clicking his tongue, Lance stalks around the island, slipping his hands over Keith’s hips and hooking his chin on his shoulder. “There’s enough counter space when everything is in the right place.” He says, inhaling the delicious scent of caramelized garlic and butter.

Turning his head a fraction to shoot him an incredulous look, Keith states, “We don’t even have anywhere to put our toothbrushes.”

Lance presses his lips to the spot where Keith’s shirt neckline connects with his skin. “They’re fine where they are.”

“I don’t know anyone else who has a toothbrush holder on top of the towel shelf.”

“Towel cabinet and that just makes us interesting.”

Keith drops a few other ingredients into the pan, letting them sizzle and pop, “It’s a shelf, there aren’t any doors, Lance. And how does that make us interesting at all?”

Grabbing the salt, Lance shakes in enough that Keith shoots him a look that says ‘don’t you dare ruin our food you heathen’. “It’s a cabinet because there’s more than one level, _Keith_. And we’re interesting because everyone else puts them in the same place. On the counter is just lame.”

Keith stops him from adding more salt, “You’re going to make it gross. And you’re only saying that because everyone else has room to use the counter.”

Pouting as the shaker is ripped out of his hand, Lance slips it under the hem of Keith’s shirt. He finds that arrangement better anyway. “We have room on the counter.”

“We do now.” Keith says absentmindedly as he shuffles to the chopping board, dragging Lance behind him like a waterlogged beaver.

“Mmm, no. I’m going to change it back because it’s a hazard. Remember old man?”

Lance watches as Keith expertly chops a group of carrots, he was able to pick it up from Hunk in like twenty minutes. So unfair, Lance has been trying for the last four years and he still has no idea how they can cut so fast without slicing off their fingers. Hunk can actually do it with his eyes closed and it gives Lance anxiety every time.

Keith says shooting him a look, he’s not quite as good as Hunk but he makes a valiant effort. “I’m like a year older than you. And you shouldn’t change it back because it looks fine how it is.”

“Eyes on the board, Samurai.” Lance chides, adjusting his arms to be out of the way of Keith’s pulsating elbows, “Also you’re a year and four months older than me so you’re basically ancient and I have to move it back because it’s messy.”

“It’s the cleanest it’s been since you took over.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s true.”

Lance hums, it is absolutely true but only because Keith is a subconscious minimalist and before he started spending nights here there were exactly five items in Keith’s bathroom. A toothbrush, a bar of soap, a towel, a two in one shampoo bottle and a toothpaste container. It wasn’t exactly hard to be considered messier than that. “I have to or I’ll go crazy.”

Keith’s hairs brushes Lance’s forehead as he swipes the carrot slices onto a plate, “You’re already crazy.”

“Also rude.”

“Also true.”

“Ugh.” Lance supplies, burrowing his face between Keith’s shoulder blades as he works.

“We can get a shelf for all your shit.” Keith suggests, moving over to the stove as best he can with Lance waddling behind him.

“There’s no room for a shelf.” Lance points out, sound muffled by the shirt.

“We could replace that awful bathroom art.” He sweeps a handful of chives off the board into the pan, using the spatula to turn over the oil spitting contents.

“We wouldn’t be able to open the door all the way.” Lance reminds, kissing the back of Keith’s neck. “And Shiro would be offended if he ever found out we took it down.”

“Over the sink?” He asks distractedly as his eyes flick over the herbs and spices on display in the cabinet to his left.

Raising his head, Lance looks over his shoulder again at the mouthwatering food he’s creating, “You want to bolt a shelf directly into the mirror?” He teases, watching as Keith remembers the layout of his bathroom.

His face scrunches in thought. “Okay so no shelf then.”

Too bad, a shelf would have been nice. Extra space that was out of the way and stylish. Lance groans internally as the idea is dismissed, Keith had made a suggestion to fix a problem now it was his turn.

“I could put some of the ones I don’t use regularly in the drawer.” Lance mumbles reluctantly, sluggishly removing his arms from Keith’s waist to go do just that. Compromise baby, relationships are built on that shit.

An amused smile is all Lance can see as Keith turns to dump an array of seasonings in the pan, “That’s a start.”

“That’s the end!” He exclaims over his shoulder as he strolls back to the bathroom.

“When you’re done move the toothbrushes off the towel-”

“Cabinet!” Lance cuts off, grinning to himself.

“Shelf!”

Lance laughs under his breath as he starts dropping containers into the drawers. It might be a shelf.

***

_Now_

Date unknown

They were watching him. That was for sure. The question was, how?

Obviously through a camera. It would be one hundred times harder, less convenient and a whole lot weirder if they were watching through a hole in the wall. Plus he would have seen it. He’s scanned every inch of this awful room, if there had been a place with any such hole, he would have found it.

That fact also makes it hard to fully understand how they were seeing him. Cameras could be small but not microscopic. Not that he was aware of anyway. He hadn’t thought doors could be completely invisible save for a tiny line until he’d landed here. Maybe this was one of those CIA secret equipment discoveries. If they could make a pen shoot toxic darts then they could make invisible cameras.

Or maybe Keith’s conspiracies about the governments and secret services were rubbing off on him and there was a logical explanation for it. Like a normal sized camera hidden mostly in the wall with only the lens showing. Maybe the shutters on the inside were white to help disguise it. It could be hidden in the lights. So even if he looks directly at it, he won’t see it because he’ll literally be blind. Or in the vent, tilted at an angle so it’s able to see the entire room in all its mundane glory.

For such a tiny ass room there sure were a lot of options for perving on prisoners.

He squinted at the lights, rings of black staining his vision and forcing him to look away. Would the camera be overcome by the intensity of the light? Or were there some sort of setting that could help counter balance the exposure? A microphone, on the other hand, wouldn’t be affected by the bright nature of the fluorescent lights. Okay, so microphone in the lights, that left the vent and walls for the camera. It would be strange to hide a camera just in the middle of the wall, so probably not there. Unless that’s what they thought he’d think and put one there because he wouldn’t consider it. Reverse psychology or something.

Lance scanned the walls, looking for any irregularities. None. Well that’s probably accurate, he was pretty sure that if the camera was in such an odd place it would be harder to see the whole room. Except if there were multiple cameras…

No, he was being paranoid. His eye twitched suspiciously at the center of the wall in front of him. It was a spot exactly like the one beside it. Plain white, lit up by the fluorescence of the lights. Or that’s what they wanted him to think anyway. Anything was possible. He dragged his gaze skeptically to the vent.

The slits running horizontally would make it difficult to see the whole picture but perhaps a backup camera would be placed there in case Lance were to find the others and destroy them. Assuming of course, a young man with no functional arm power and a tendency to pass out from malnutrition, was able to destroy a likely high tech and durable camera.

Arguably the most realistic place for a camera was the top corners of the room.

Lots of angles, too high for occupants to reach…

It was in one of the top corners of the room. Which one though, that was the real question.

All of them, was the natural answer. But that seemed needlessly expensive. Unless this was some weird rich person’s idea of fun. Like when they would draw lost sailors onto their island and hunt them for sport. The paranoia was back, eyeing each corner of the room cynically.

Damn Keith and his love of ancient literature. Now all Lance could think of was the story “The most dangerous game.” by some old author that Keith loved to rant about. Expecting at any moment he would be whisked off to a faraway location and hunted down like an animal by some snooty, sadistic billionaire. The stupid story was likely over one hundred years old and here he was, curling in on himself in the corner furthest from the door, scared shitless.

Lovely.

He didn’t sleep for a long time, glaring at the corner just to the right of the door slit.

Someone was on the other side of that camera, watching for something, seeing him flinch at every beat of his own heart.

Waiting for him to slowly lose his mind.

Lance doesn’t sleep for a long time, keeping his face frozen in a defiant glare.

Fuck them and their cameras.

***

_Then (3 years before)_

June 30, 2044

The wedding is beautiful. It is a simple celebration, inexpensive and relatively small, but each penny was put to good use. Subtle yet meaningful decorations littered the hall, bringing the room to life with awe inspiring wonder lust. His parents are sat teary eyed in the front row, attention on their granddaughter in her pastel yellow gown. The skirts of her dress rustle as Nydia trots her way down the aisle, throwing handfuls of petals to the walkway with each tiny shuffle.

Lance is standing a few steps to the side of his brother, the crisp black of Marco's suit solid and striking. He looks nervous, slightly pale in the face with his eyebrows scrunched. It's not really a bad nervousness, more like a giddy apprehension. Like he can't believe its really happening, like he can't believe he's marrying the girl of his dreams.

His soon to be wife has pretty much been a part of the family since they started dating four years ago, the only delay on making it official had been Marco working up the balls to pop the question. But here they are, finally about to promulgate the occasion, and Marco looks like he's about to throw up all over the officiator. As one of his best men, Lance isn't about to let that happen.

See, the thing about Marco is that when he gets caught up in a moment, gets overwhelmed by an emotion, he forgets to breathe. It's caused a few (debatebly hilarious) moments in school plays when he passes out and tumbles off the stage.

This will not be one of those times if Lance has anything to say about it. He nudges Luis beside him, drawing his eyes from the parading child in her billowy drapes. Lance waves at Marco, subtly, but in a detailed manner, mimicking the act of vomiting, going as far as smoothing his hands down his suit lapels and fanning a hand in front of his nose. Luis has never been good at charades, but he seems to get the idea.

Nydia is still working her way down the path, drawing coos from the crowd as she lets a chubby fist of pink and white petals drift downward, and Luis clears his throat. He is largely ignored by the audience but he catches the grooms attention.

Marco's eyes flick to him and Luis raises his eyebrows, inhaling a deep breath into his lungs, making his shoulders move to emphasize his point.

All it manages to do is make Marco look even more constipated as he sucks an unholy amount of air. Beside him, Luis shoots the groom a strained smile, throwing a thumbs up in his direction like he didn’t just make the situation worse.

Lance glares at his older brother, _Nice work._

Luis shrugs unhelpfully, eyes glued to the vein beginning to pulsate Marco’s temple. They wince together as their bother tugs at his tie, as if mucking up the hard work their mother had put into straightening it out would help him breathe. It’s lopsided and wrong now but Lance is currently more concerned at the purple shade he seems to be turning. Time to take matters into his own hands and do what he does best; make light of serious events.

All eyes are at the front as Nydia completes her trek down the winding hall, plopping down into her grandmother's lap and dropping her basket to the petal laden floor. He cracks his knuckles in preparation, rolling his neck to one side and catching the suspicious stare of Luis. He smirks at him in response, taking a step out of line.

Walking over to the groom like it was all part of the plan is slightly difficult when he’s conscious of the curious eyes watching him. Marco’s especially panicked expression is almost off putting enough for him to abort the mission but, well, he’s already at his destination so he’s just going to have to suck it up.

Standing there for a moment, Lance runs a critical eye over Marco’s attire, he cheats his stance towards the room like he learned to do in his middle school play. Straightening his brothers tie with quick fingers and drastic enough gestures for the crowd to see, he leans in and whispers, “Relax, man. Just breathe or this is going to be eighth grade peter pan all over again.” Lance whips out the handkerchief from his pocket and dramatically, waving it out of its folded shape. The expression he puts on is entirely for show and he hears titters of laughter from the audience as he wipes non-existent smudges from Marco’s glasses while they sit still perched on his nose. A small repressed smile appears on the grooms face as Lance mimes spitting in his hand to smooth back his brother's already slick hair. He doesn’t actually do it, but the rudimentary movement is enough to make Marco’s eyes squint as he holds in his own laughter, and that right there was the whole point. Lance steps back, bringing his fingers to his lips and demonstrating an exaggerated chef’s kiss, drawing another round of chuckles from the rows of spectators.

 _You got this_ he mouths as he falls back into his place, attention of the room snapping to the doors as the line of bridesmaids dance in.  
Marco pulls his shoulders back, nodding once in gratitude, either for the break in tension or the reassurance. Maybe both.

“Not bad, bro.” Luis whispers from his side, eyes trained on where his own wife is working her way down the carpet in a lavender bridesmaid dress.

“Better than you could do,” Lance replies, linking his hands behind his back and rocking slightly in his shiny dress shoes smugly.

Luis scoffs but doesn’t deny it. Everyone knows that Lance has a certain flair for dramatics that tends to be virtually unmatched. It always comes in handy when he needs to get somewhere but doesn’t quite have a plausible reason to be there. Of course it is almost always embarrassing, either in the moment or after a sentimental recollection from a family member, often it’s unpleasant for him during both instances. Nevertheless, he finds the outcome of his likely facetious outgoings worth it in the end.

And while Marco doesn’t look completely relaxed, he is starting to look less purple with every bridesmaid halting at the front of the hall. This wedding will thankfully not result in a horrifying story of groom sickness all over the podium. There may be cause for vomit at the reception when they all get horrendously drunk and fail at pretending otherwise, but not right now. And that’s a win in Lance’s book.

Everything is how it should be, the lights are appropriately magical, the bridesmaids look elegant as they form a line of brilliant lavender against the white back droppings, there are no regurgitated carrot chunks on the groom’s suit. A fine wedding indeed.

His eyes run over the audience, catching on a familiar face looking back at him.

Keith is a few rows back, a reverent distance for someone not strictly family. He’s dressed about as formally as could be expected from him. There’s a blazer that Lance forced him into a few hours ago over his famed classic formal shirt and his black jeans are new and un-ripped. He looks good, really unfairly good. Keith’s eyes crinkle in an amused smile, mouth lifting slightly at the corners as their eyes.

Lance levels him with a reproachful look, as if to ask _what?_ Even though he already knows the answer. Honestly, one would think the boy would be used to him and his unusual escapades after all the years they’d known each other.

Keith commits to a half shrug, repressing the smile on his face.

Lifting an eyebrow, Lance lets his eyes shamelessly fall down Keith’s frame. Weirdly enough, the boy can make blazers look punk but like... respectfully punk.

Keith’s eyes are narrowed when he finally brings his gaze up again and the wink that Lance shoots him comes without much thought.

Lance is saved from whatever nonverbal response Keith might have replied with as the doors swing open to reveal the bride. All guests rise to their feet as she takes to the aisle. She looks amazing in her dress, his brother is a lucky man, but as she steps down the petal laid pathway, Lance is smiling for an entirely different reason.

It’s a beautiful wedding.

***

_Now_

Date unknown

“One time, in like fourth grade, a kid in my class threw an apple at me.” Lance turns on his side, staring up at the right corner of his cell, pretending the (possibly non-existent) camera there was a person rather than a device recording and broadcasting his image to some stranger in a room probably consuming stale donuts and cold coffee. “I heard from the school gossip group that when you got hit in the face you could get a popsicle from the office. I bribed this guy, Tommy I think, with my berry-mix juice box to get him to whip an apple at my face as hard as he could. It knocked out my tooth and I had to go see the nurse.” Lance sniffed, flexing his left foot once just to make sure he still could. “They really didn’t do much. Stuffed some of that gross brown paper towel in my mouth to stop the bleeding and gave me a shitty ice pack for my cheek.” He narrowed his eyes at the seventh stitch on the left pant leg of his calf. “I think the ice pack was just for show though, it thawed out in like two minutes flat. The worst part was that they didn’t give me a popsicle. It was such bullshit.” He shifted to his back, closing his eyes against the harsh assault of the light. “Do you understand how pumped I was to get that popsicle?” No answer came. He forged on, “So pumped, I would have walked into the classroom like a king.” He huffed out a laugh, remembering how he’d shuffled into the room with his face all swollen and tear tracks dried on his face. “Instead all I got was Tommy Jacobs thinking I was some sort of masochist until I graduated high school.”

Lance sighed through his nose heavily. This was the fifteenth story he’d told to an empty room. Nothing relevant, just random memories that popped into his brain. He didn't exactly enjoy talking to himself, recently his own voice had taken to sounding dull and rough. But it was noise, something to break the silence. He would kill for some music right about now. Or any outside sound at all.

Besides the tapping and the sound of his own tattered vocal cords. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem likely to happen.

Lance let out another frustrated breath, pushing the air out through his lightly clenched teeth and suppressing the agitation rising in his gut.

He focused on his tapping, waiting for the next story to come to life in his mind.

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap… tap tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap…._

"Basketball wasn't really a big sport in my family before I was born." His fingers twitch in their fabric casing, imagining the feel of those plastic ridges he'd become so accustomed to. "I didn't even know about it until middle school gym class." _Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap..._ "I got really into it after I made the school team, just had a natural talent for it I guess. " There might be an opportunity for a funny sex joke buried somewhere in 'natural talent' but Lance is sure the humour would fall on deaf ears anyway, he moves on with his story, "My coach really helped me that first year, with rules and stuff." Lance smiled at the vague memory of his the older Cuban man patiently coaching him through his mistakes. "But it was really my family that came through with the support." _Tap, tap, taptaptap,_ "At first it was embarrassing when they all showed up with glitter posters and cowbells, but looking back on it now... it's really nice." He stumbles a little on the word, cringing at his lame description but not knowing how else to describe the act. His family hadn't cared for basketball but they'd been enthusiastic about it all anyway. "I don't think I would have kept going with the sport after that first year if they hadn't been cheering for me." _Tap, tap, taptap,_ "My twin sister learned the rules so she could practice with me and my dad set up a hoop in the back yard so we could all play together." It hadn't been a very good net, if you hit the backboard in the wrong place the entire thing would fall off, but it made Lance smile at the proud look his father had on when he'd showed them. "My brother Lu-, my older brother tried to learn too, but he sucked." Lance laughed to himself, pretending he didn't hear the way it echoed. Soundproof walls don't echo. They don’t, so don’t think about it. "He sucked so bad. He got the only ball we had caught in a tree. Twice!" Shaking his head, Lance rocks onto his back, closing his eyes and imagining the guilty look on Luis' face when the faded orange ball stopped its decent from the tree still ten feet from the ground. "The best part is, we didn't even have any trees in our yard! He somehow managed to throw into our neighbours!" Luis had the finesse of a newborn baby goat on ice skates. His heart was in the right place, trying to help his little brother get ready for his upcoming game but he never quite got the hang of it. Rachel had really been his salvation back then.

 _Tap, tap, taptaptap,_ It takes a second for a new story to crawl its way to the front of his brain. _Tap, tap, taptap..._ One pops into his mind just as the bridge of his nose starts to itch.

"When I first met my sister-in-law, we were in the middle of a food fight." If he tries hard enough, he can bend his face to his forearm and rub against the fabric until the itch goes away. "This is the girl that eventually got married to my older brother, you know, the one with the tree and the ball? Yeah, him." If the itch were in a more unfortunate spot, say his forehead or the bottom of his foot, he would have to just wait it out. Or rut around like a horny gorilla but that was reserved for desperate situations only. Luckily, he's able to relieve the itch on his nose using the more mundane method. "Both of my brother’s are married now actually. I went to my other brother’s wedding just a little while ago. And don’t get me wrong, I love the girl he married. She’s awesome and we go way back, but me and my oldest brother’s wife have a connection okay?” Lisa was one of his best friends and the fact that she is still a permanent fixture in Lance’s life will never stop making him feel a swell of happiness. “We were in high school when we met and she was two years above me." _Tap, tap, taptap_ _t_ _ap,_ "I was covered from head to toe in spicy chili and some sort of kale smoothie. And while delicious on their own, together they make this nasty mixture that makes your hair smell for days." _Tap, tap, taptap,_ "I see this girl in the middle of the chaos, eating her spaghetti without a spot on her. Shit is flying everywhere and she's just sitting there calmly eating her lunch like a bad ass." _Tap, tap, taptaptap._ "We make eye contact right, and I'm a good guy so if this chick doesn't feel like getting covered in mashed potatoes before fifth period, I get it. I can totally respect that. No biggie, I'd just move on to the next person and cover them in sour cream or something." _Tap, tap, taptap._ "But then this girl, keep in mind, the _mother of my brother's children_ , gets up and with one hand launches her plate of food at me!" Lance breaks out into laughter, she told him years later that the surprise on his face had been worth sacrificing her pasta for. "So now I’m covered in chili, kale _and_ spaghetti, and she's across the table laughing her ass off." _tap, tap, taptaptap._ "So I get revenge by snatching an applesauce cup off her tray and dumping it in her hair." The food fight of 10th grade would go down as one of the best times of his life fore sure. "Its a snowball of retaliations after that, we became friends while everyone who participated in the food fight had to clean up the cafeteria. Later she got hitched with my bro and gave me the most amazing niece and nephew in the world." Sylvio and Nydia were two of his favourite people to ever exist. He would get covered in ten times the amount of spaghetti if it meant having them in his life. There was another kid on the way too and, if Lance ever got to meet them, he knew he would love them just as much as he loved their siblings. If he ever got out of here, he'd meet his new niece or nephew.

His throat is dry from all the talking, it hurts to cough. He wets his lips. _tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap..._

"My older sister is a lawyer," He starts slowly, not entirely sure where he might take the story. "She's a good one too. I don't know why she likes it though, seems kind of morbid to argue about dead peoples possessions all day." She liked to argue with everyone as a kid, maybe that was relevant in her career choice, "It's not something I would want to do for the rest of my life but... her face the first time she won a case...I think maybe that's why she likes it. She's always been a sore winner." Lance sighs in exasperation, letting his head tilt to peer up at the corner, "It took a long time for her to get where she is. So much schooling. I helped her study for her tests and even the flash cards she made were confusing." On his back, he stretches his legs up the wall, propping them on the heels and letting his calves rest against the flat surface, "Words like arbitration, certiorari and intestate are burned into my brain and I genuinely have no idea what they mean." He bends and unbends his knees experimentally, arching his toes and drawing indiscriminate lines with the point, "Actually I know that intestate means to die without a will. And trust me, buddy." He addresses the corner, "You do not wanna die without a will, its like the food fight of the legal world. Relatives all scrambling to say they knew you the best or that you promised them the boat. Real messy and real annoying for everyone apparently." He tapped the wall with his right heel, _tap, tap, taptaptap,_ "I also know a weird amount of protocol for questioning a murder suspect." _tap, tap, taptap,_ "You have to be really careful with what you ask and how you ask it. Don't wanna get shanked with a toothbrush or anything right?" His leg cramps and he shakes it out, watching his limp foot flop around like and electrocuted fish, "Actually they probably wouldn't be able to get a shank into the court room, security and all. Unless they put it in a special little prison wallet if you know what I mean." He wiggle his eyebrows at the lights, amused despite himself. "It might sound weird after that comment but I'm really proud of my sister. For you know, going after her dream or whatever.” She’d worked hard to get to where she was now, Lance had always looked up to her for that. “I've switched my major twice and still don't know what I'm doing with my life." _Tap, tap, taptaptap,_ "I haven't told anyone this, but I'm scared that one year I won't be able to renew my scholarship and I'll just have wasted my chance to get a degree at one of the best universities in the world." _tap, tap, taptap._ "I tell my family that I'm just figuring it all out, settling in and stuff, but I think I'm actually running out of time. Sport scholarships only last a few years." _Tap, tap, taptaptap,_ "If I'd got an academic scholarship, things would have been different." _Tap, tap, taptap._ "Did you know that if I get hurt I have the potential to lose my scholarship? Or if I'm not up to performance and my coach decides to kick me?" He rolls onto his arms, letting his feet fall from their perch, "How shitty would that be?" He strains his neck, looking up at the corner like a desperate child, 'I'd go back to Cuba without a degree and-" And disappoint my family. Walk into the house with nothing but an empty apology that the last few years he could have been working on the farm, he wasted on an unfinished education. "I guess it doesn't matter now. Not like I need a degree to sit here and talk to myself." He says bitterly, scraping up the energy to roll himself into a sitting position.

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap._

He'd never said those words out loud before. It doesn't feel good, there's not any relief or weight off his shoulders as the secret falls from his lips. He feels crushed, like saying it made it all real. Hell, it probably did. He'd probably already lost the scholarship while he was in here. He was going to lose his life in here to so it was ironically fitting.

But he wasn't dead yet, might as well talk while he still can right?

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap._

“When my nephew was born, he liked to eat the dirt out of potted plants.” Lance croaks out a weak laugh, picturing little Sylvio staring up at him with wide eyes and a hand full of dirt smeared across his lips. “We all tried to stop him, and dragged him away from it when we caught him, but somehow he always managed to crawl over when we weren’t looking.” _Tap, tap, taptaptap_ , “My mama was so fed up, my brother and sister-in-law were too of course, but mama was so… exasperated every time she found him.” _Tap, tap, taptap,_ “She would forget that he was a baby and just speak rapid fire Spanish at him.” _Tap, tap, taptaptap,_ “She would just go on and on about how bad it was for him, sometimes she went into detail about how he could ruin his digestive system.” _Tap, tap, taptap,_ “She wouldn’t stop until one of us reminded her that he couldn’t understand her yet.” _Tap, tap, taptaptap_ , “Then she’d get this look in her eyes for a second, like she was just realizing that the child in her arms was covered in dirt and spit.” _Tap, tap, taptap,_ “She’d slow down her talking and switch between English and Spanish as she took him to clean up.” _Tap, tap, taptaptap,_ “You have no many times I’ve said the phrase, ‘stop eating dirt.’ in my life.” _Tap, tap, taptap,_ “Mama finally got rid of the plant after my nephew threw up all over my niece.” _Tap, tap, taptaptap,_ “It was awful, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen dirt vomit, but it’s nasty.” _Tap, tap, taptap,_ “It’s all black and mushy and it’s even worse if the stuff’s all over a crying toddler.” _Tap, tap, taptaptap._ “We all pretty much had enough of dirt at that point. Even though my nephew threw a fit the next day when he saw his favourite plant was gone.”

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap… tap tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap…._

“I miss them.”

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap… tap tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap…._

“I really want to go home.” He whispered into the empty room.

_Tap, tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap… tap tap, taptaptap, tap, tap, taptap…._

***

_Then (3 years before)_

June 29 2044

The setting sun caused an array of oranges and reds to splatter across the sky. They weaved with each other, intertwining to create a magnificent view of temporary art.

Keith was leaned on the railing of the balcony, it over looked the beach. Crystal water reflected the colours of the sunset, enhancing the vision into something almost magical. There was good reason for Keith to look completely and utterly immersed in the setting.

He looked good. From where Lance was standing, against the door frame a few steps back, he looked untouchable. Comfortable and sure, a far cry away from the awkward boy that had tripped on the stair upon entering the kitchen a few hours ago.

He’d been so nervous. Hesitant all throughout introductions, tentatively shaking hands and answering customary questions. It wasn’t until the kids had trampled into the house, after a supposedly long day at the beach that was realistically probably an hour or two, he started to let his uncertainty slip away. The children had tackled Lance the second they’d registered who was standing in the doorway. Its a mess of nieces, nephews, and cousins tumbling at him all at once.

Lance had fallen to the carpet with an “oof”, the sound barely heard over the enthusiastic shouts of “Tio Lance!” or “You’re home!” or the just the overcast of senseless screaming.

It would be hard not to smile at a gaggle of children ambushing their returned overseas (Favourite!) uncle. When they had settled down somewhat and finally turned their questioning to Keith, Lance had actually been concerned at the overwhelmed look his face had broken out into, debating whether or not it was his job to step in and save his boyfriend. There hadn't been any need though, a curious question from Nydia had caught Keith's attention and he'd latched onto it like a lifeline.

"Do you like cats or dogs?" She'd asked, pudgy hands still clutching her polka-dot towel from the beach the thumb on the other hand tucked securely in her mouth.

From there Keith had gotten caught up in a storm of questions about Kosmo, requests for pictures and some random inquires somehow thrown into the mix like if he thought their Tio Lance was attractive or not. Keith had blushed up to his ears at that one and distracted them with the picture of Kosmo on his phone lock screen. Using his dog to avoid any questions he didn't want to answer. Real mature move, Keith.  
Lance decided not to say that out loud though, he just settled in against the wooden banister and watched Keith's face light up at the intrigued expressions around him.

"So this is the famous Keith we've heard so much about." Lance jumped, eyes flicking behind him before grinning, he turned to embrace his twin.

Rachel looked the same as she did the last time he'd been home a few months ago, the jagged cut of hair stopping above her shoulders, eyes the same as his own intense and bright.

"I don't talk about him _that_ much." He replies, letting her go as her words take root.

"Mhm," Veronica cuts is, approaching from the kitchen, "Only every time you call home."

Lance glares at her, crossing his arms lazily across his chest, "Yeah but you _interrogate_ me because you're weirdly invested. It's not my fault I can't stop myself," Lance glances over to the living room where Keith is frozen still as Sylvio climbs up to his shoulders, their eyes connect and Lance can't help the upturn of his lips as his nephew points in a random direction yelling 'charge!' at the top of his lungs. Keith obligingly walks around the living room. "He's cute and Hunk has mastered the art of ignoring my rants."

"Think he'd be willing to teach me?" Rachel asks, eyes tracking Keith's careful steps with interest, "I've been trying to tune you out for years but your annoying voice always gets to me."

Lance slings an arm around her shoulders, "Ah, well that's because we're on the same brainwave, your mind isn't designed to ignore me."

Rachel casts him a side eyed look, not even bothering to turn to him fully, "That's not how it works."

"Shh," He hushes, patting the middle of her face with his palm twice just to watch her expression crinkle in indignation, "I'm not the one who dropped biology in eleventh grade, I know how these things work."

Catching his wrist with a quick snap of her hand, she glares at him, "You finished the course with a 54."

"A passing grade, Rach. And still more than your zero." He smirks and holds his fist out to Veronica who taps it with feigned disinterest, her half smile is present even before she waves at her niece across the room.

"I liked you better when I could hang up every time you annoy me." Rachel sighs, flicking a bug off Lance's shoulder as he watches Keith cautiously step around the children at his feet, still carrying Sylvio on his shoulder who somehow has acquired a shark toy and a lightsaber.

"If we could do that, we'd never actually talk to him." Veronica laughs, crouching down to scoop up a wildly gesticulating Nydia.

"Excuse you, I happen to say intellectual and humorous things all the time." Lance defends, giving Nydia his finger to hold when she reaches for it.  
"Yeah!" She agrees, the hand that's not gripping Lance's finger patting cutely at Veronica's shoulder.

"See?" Lance coos, sweeping the toddler from his sisters arms, "The little lady has spoken, no take backs." He pokes her nose and she giggles, squirming around to get comfortable against his chest.

Veronica frowns as the child is literally stolen right from her arms, pursing her lips at Nydia in a pseudo frown.

“No take backs!” She titters happily, flapping her arms around, dragging Lance’s still captured finger with it.

“That’s right,” Lance agrees, composing his face into a serious expression, “I won’t let the evil women get you.” Partly for his niece’s sake but more to indulge the child he was and would always be at heart, he sticks his tongue out at his sisters, trying and failing to hold down his smile as Nydia mimics the motion. She goes slightly cross-eyed as she peers down at her own tongue, as if to make sure she was doing it correctly.

Frankly, she’s adorable. In every sense of the word, from her cute concentrated expression to the polka-dot towel still draped around her shoulders. That said, towels aren’t exactly the most comfortable of attire. Lance grabs and edge of the fabric, startling the little girl out of her focused state, and gently tugs it away. She looks on curiously, pouting lips and eyebrows scrunched in adorable confusion, as he chucks it in the direction of Rachel’s face.

The surprised ‘urgh’ from his sister is all he sticks around to hear. He takes off through the living room, child tucked securely against his shoulder as he maneuvers expertly around the mismatched furniture, both of them laughing as Rachel gives chase. He faintly hears Veronica’s shout to be careful over the chaos but he pays it no mind, he’s a fully grown adult. Running around like a child. With a child. Ah, Lance loves being home.

They loop a few laps around the house, dodging people and objects like their lives depend on it. They manage to lose Rachel in a twist corner upstairs but if Lance knows anything about his twin, she’ll be right back on their trail in no time.

When they veer left into the kitchen, they find themselves in a predicament.

“Mamma!” Nydia exclaims from his arms, waving jubilantly at the figure now blocking the other doorway. A person widely known to have an alliance with Rachel when it comes to defying Lance’s schemes. Exactly the opposite of what Lance needed right about now. Alliances run deep throughout the family, all fun and games but also extremely competitive. And it wasn’t a simple one side verses the other either. No, it was far more complicated than that. A plethora of intertwining groups with a multitude of loyalties branching in all directions.

There were contradictory allegiances scattered throughout the group, Lance himself just last Christmas getting caught up in a scandal between Luis and Marco, both of whom he had a pact with. He’d spent the contest jumping between parties, helping out one side before returning to the other. It had been chaotic and the absolute definition of a McClain reunion. Lance had ties with just about everyone in the family and he could honestly say that the pranks he’d pulled with some of his siblings or cousins had made the already strong relationships he had with them stronger. The silly competitions or playful schemes had made them the tight knit family that they were. Even his parents were in on it, choosing sides and even occasionally opposing each other as a result. All good-natured jabs that provoked harmless retaliation. There was never any tension or bad blood sprouting from the meaningless scrimmages, everyone had a valued understanding of the pure entertainment value of the events. It was all fun, elementary feuds that were forgotten the moment dinner was served. From an outside perspective it might look ridiculous, teams of relatives at each others throats during an impromptu water fight and the next moment asking their previous foe to pass the peas at the table. But it was their normal and something Lance looked forward to every trip home.

There wasn’t a soul in the family that was untethered to at least three other people at any one time. It was incredibly inclusive and sometimes a little terrifying how strong the bonds could become. Sometimes even Sylvio was roped into the plans, just bordering on old enough to have an understanding of the intricate dynamic of their family squabbles.

Veronica liked to say she was neutral, a self appointed judge, but Lance knew she had secretly helped out certain teams when she wanted to. A corrupt lawyer, how shameful. It was all in good jest of course, it was nice to have an unbiased member to declare the winner of a particularly competitive pie eating contest or anything in that realm of possibility.

There were multiple pairings, like Lisa and Rachel’s, where their alliance stood with one main objective. Theirs being; make sure Lance doesn’t get his way without a fight. It was an obstacle that was quite disruptive at times.

“Tio Lance and me are playing a game!” Nydia proclaims excitedly to her mother, pudgy cheeks upturned in a cheerful smile.

That’s his girl, prompt no suspicion. Just like he taught her, his own little protégé. As soon as she understood that alliances did not mean to waddle around with a plastic shovel and tap at peoples ankles, he would have to get her on his team.

Lisa, at the very least seems more amused than anything that Lance is running around the house carrying her kid. The woman leans against the counter, dropping the dirty bowl in her hands into the sink, “Sounds fun baby, what kind of game?”

“We’re running away from Tia Rachel!” Nydia giggles and Lance freezes in his subtle attempt to inch around his sister-in-law. His eyes are wide as they meet Lisa’s across the room, shinning with an innocence he knows she doesn’t buy for a second.

“Is that so?” She asks conspiratorially, voice dropping as her eyes narrow at Lance’s carefully resumed movements.

Rachel can be heard clambering down the stairs, its time to make their escape. Exit stage right immediately.

“Nope, not at all.” Lance hedges, shuffling towards the opposing door, “We would never.”

“Lance.” Lisa says, voice eerily similar to the tone she used years ago in a certain cafeteria, paper plate full of spaghetti. “Give me my daughter.”

Rachel seems to be getting closer, her rapid steps sounding louder as she nears. “Not a chance.” Lance grins and sidesteps Lisa in a few quick moves, hustling through the front room with two gaining McClain women hot on his tail.

Nydia is laughing in that thrilled way only toddlers seem to be able to achieve. Her fingers flap periodically at his shoulder when they take certain turns past other family members. They wave back with vaguely curious and entirely unsurprised expressions.

Eventually, when taking a shortcut through the living room, he runs into Keith. Who, funnily enough, has a child of his own tangled up in his arms.

Sylvio is hanging from one of Keith’s shoulders in a position that might seem rather unconventional but the boy somehow makes seem perfectly comfortable. Well, his nephew seems comfortable, Lance’s boyfriend on the other hand looks slightly pained. Weather its from the unorthodox orientation or the bombarding of questions Sylvio seems to be spewing, Lance isn’t entirely sure. Either way, he hurries his ass over to them in an alacrity fashion.

Stooping low behind Keith’s back, ignoring the twin questioning looks the pair regard him with, Lance watches as Lisa and Rachel round the corner together.

Of course, he doesn’t actually expect them not to immediately spot him, but he brings a finger to his lips when Sylvio look down at him anyway. The boy’s face lights up with the secret, turning his chubby face around to the two women entering the room. He looks way too excited to be subtle.

“Hello, darling.” Lisa says to Sylvio, raising an eyebrow, “You haven’t seen your Tio and sister come past here, have you?”

Sylvio shakes his head, guilty face having broken out into a smile the second his mother started talking. Keith also wisely nods along when Lance pinches his calf.

Nydia is still in his arms, lip bitten between her teeth. Looking bewilderingly anxious about the whole ordeal, its so cute Lance isn’t exaggerating when he says he’d die for her.

“How strange,” Rachel starts, “I could have sworn I saw them right...” She jumps around Keith, stealing Nydia from Lance’s arms with an exclaimed “Here!” Nydia screams at the excitement, mingled with Sylvio’s laugh ringing out from where he’s squirming out of Keith’s arms to chase after his stolen sister.

Two screeching children, a few rounds of faux wrestling and one bout of unrestrained laughter from Keith later, Lance knew that his family had officially torn down Keith’s sturdy walls.

This persisted through all of diner, his family listening to his answers with interest and including him in conversation seamlessly.  
It was actually difficult for Lance not to preen at how well the interactions were going and Rachel had nudged him under the table a few times for his dumbstruck expression. She’d given him a hard time about it the second Keith had excused himself to the bathroom, his whole family, naturally, had joined in on the teasing. Lance couldn’t even find it in himself to care. Not when Keith’s nervous state from earlier had been eased into a certain familiarity that had exceeded all of Lance’s wildest expectations.

Even now, with the breeze from the beach ruffling Keith’s dark hair, Lance can’t help the wistful twist in his heart.

“Enjoying the view? Cause I know I am.” Lance says from the doorway, smirking as Keith jumps at the noise. Lance joins him at the railing, eyes never leaving his face. What a fine piece of ass his boyfriend is. Lance is shameless at the best of times, but when it’s just him and Keith, it tends to be more genuine and less for show.

“Very original.” Keith huffs, turning back to the beach as if that would stop Lance from spotting the crinkle of his eyes.

“There’s a time and place for originality, sometimes cliché is the way to go.” Lance winks, leaning his weight into Keith’s shoulder and biting his lip against a grin when Keith shoots him a look.

“Mhm.” He hums in response, relaxing his own weight against Lance.

Looking up at his face, Lance sees his eyes close, “You okay?” He whispers, concern twisting its way into his tone.

“Tired,” Keith grumbles, squinting up at him as he yawns.

“Yeah,” Lance laughs, letting Keith settle more firmly against his shoulder, “Kids’ll do that to you.” He says in place of the more probable reasoning that Keith’s very limited social interaction meter had been overfilled and now he was crashing because of it.

The boy hums, low and short, as answer. His eyes just barely open, glued intently on the wondrous sky in front of them. A sky Lance has seen a million times and still takes his breath away. Lance lets them settle tranquilly into the scene.

In a rare moment of quiet, Lance can appreciate the sounds of the world around them. The house, while not exactly silent, is peaceful like a busy home almost never is. There is water from the shower running in the background, the kids getting ready for bed and washing the grime of the day from their skin. There are doors opening and closing in indiscriminate patterns, a lull of hushed conversations just barely audible from deep in the quarters of the house.

“I really like your family.” Keith whispers against his neck, his breath tickling across his collarbone.

The water is reflecting the light of the setting sun in a wild array of colour, “I think they like you too.” He can’t wait to take Keith down to that beach tomorrow, build sand castles and swim in the clear water. “You were really good with Sylvio today, you know.” He adds, tilting his head down to look at his boyfriend.

“He’s a good kid.” Keith mutters back, slumping further into Lance’s side and sighing out yet another yawn. “You know, Marco tried to get me to alliance with him during dinner.” Keith says offhandedly, the drowsiness of sleep infecting his voice.

“Yeah?” Lance asks, not remotely surprised. Marco has never been stingy with forming alliances, the only one in the family that could rival or possibly surpass Lance’s own rather impressive web of family ties. “And what did you say, oh boyfriend of mine? Did you betray me for my brother?” he teases, nudging the boy gently with his hip. Laughing as Keith sways away before knocking back into his side.

Keith scoffs indignantly, adjusting his head against the fabric of Lance’s shirt as he settles again. “The guy’s getting married tomorrow, Lance. I couldn’t justify saying no.”

Stringing his arm more firmly around Keith, Lance shifts his footing, leaning heavily on the wooden railing. “Yes, you could have. Did you forget that you’re dating me? I think that is a very good reason to side with me.”

“He was very persistent.” Keith retorts, linking his hand with Lance’s at his waist, “He also seems to think you have some sort of... activity planned for the reception and wants all the man power he can get before then.”

“So what you’re saying is-”

“-Is that if you’re thinking of starting a food fight or water fight or sand fight or any sort of fight, prank or twister competition, I won’t be on your side.”

Lance laughed, caught by surprise, “A twister competition?”

Keith nods against his throat, “He was very specific about that one for some reason. Also about the food fight.”

Humming, Lance breathes in a deep lungful of salty air, “He should know he doesn’t need to worry about a food fight.”

“You did it a Luis and Lisa’s wedding, he was worried you wanted to make it a tradition.” Keith mumbles, dropping a barley there kiss at Lance’s clavicle.

A solid point, and one Lance wishes he’d thought about himself. “Well the food fight was a one time thing,” It had been more of a tribute to Lisa than to Luis in all honesty. He’d finally been able to get her back for the spaghetti incident of their youth. Good times. “You can tell him that when you meet up to discuss the terms of your betrayal.” Lance adds, just because he’s a pain in the ass.

Keith groans and leans far enough to peer up at his face, regarding him like a disgruntled cat. “You’re never going to let this go, are you?” He observes dryly.

“Never.” Lance grins, leaning in to kiss him.

Under the pinks and oranges of the setting sun, on the balcony overlooking the beaches of Cuba, the night before his brother’s wedding; everything is perfect..

***

_Now_

Date unknown

Its a bad day. Or a couple of bad days. Maybe just a bad few hours. Lance has no idea how long he’s been feeling like shit, but it’s, for lack of a better word, really shitty.

He’s weaker than a freshly hatched snake in a nest full of hungry eagles. Finding no energy to lift any of his limbs, not even enough to rouse him from the frankly uncomfortable position he’d keeled over into. His stomach has been intent on eating itself no matter how much rice he licks into his dry mouth. He gave up with still half a bowl of white grain when it neither seemed to be sedating his hunger or easing the scratch in his throat. Currently, he’s gnawing on a chunk of styrofoam he’d bitten off from his measly water cup. It breaks apart beneath the grind of his teeth, foam balls flattening with little pressure. Its weird, and kind of gross, but its a different texture than his own tongue and rice. That's worth the few pieces of foam he accidentally swallows. He spits out the mouthful of chewed up cup pieces, not really caring where they land, he can’t even move far enough to land it if he wanted to. There are flicks of the substance lingering in his mouth but he doesn’t move through the draining process of gathering enough spit to effectively get rid of them. They’re just going to have to chill where they are for a while. Until his brain gets another surge of productivity, though those seem to be happening less and less as time passes.

He absentmindedly wonders what his family would think of his pathetic state. Without the will power to spit out the annoying flakes of plastic on his tongue.

His family. They’d done everything for him. To better his life. Given him everything he’d ever wanted. Sending him to one of the best Universities in the country on a scholarship even though he knew they desperately wanted him to stay home. They’d seen his potential, and they’d nourished it until it flourished brightly enough to be noticed. He was going to give up the opportunity, they needed him at home to help on the farm, but they hadn’t let him. Encouraged and supported him even while tears spilled from their eyes at the airport. They called him, a steady and reliable support system from across a distance that once seemed so vast but was nothing compared to the complete seclusion he was accustom to now.

They loved him. He knew they did. And here he was, repaying them, all their hard work and love, by doing nothing to escape. By not finding a way to them. By not breaking down every single wall in this god forsaken facility to get back to them.

Useless.

Everything they’d sacrificed for him, and he went and got himself trapped. Got himself taken away from them. Was going to get himself killed. He was going to die without anyone knowing what happened to him. Without telling any of them how much he loved them all. How everything he was and everything he would have grown to become, he owed to them. To his brother and sisters, nieces and nephews, cousins, uncles and aunts. To his mom and dad. And they would never know. He would be here till his corpse was rotten, and they would be out there. Wondering, waiting, for their son that was never coming home. Because he was weak. Because even the thought of breaking their hearts wasn’t enough to pull him to his feet, wasn’t enough to convince him to fight for them. He couldn’t drag his sorry ass to his feet and fight to stay alive. Because their lost son was defective. He was inadequate, not worthy of being a part of their amazing family. The family that meant so much to him, and he was doing _nothing_. He wasn’t deserving of them, because Lance had given up, lost the strength that his family had tried so hard to install in him. Because, deep down, Lance knew he was flawed. Flawed and so incapable of the success they wanted, expected, from him. Not in school, not with his inability to settle on a major, and most certainly not in the prospect of breaking out. He couldn’t find the strength in himself, not even for them. And maybe a small part of him, which was growing with every second that passed languidly in his cell, wondered if his family was better off without him. He was a burden and now, just maybe, they were finally free of him.


End file.
